


Somnio

by vexmybones



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Future, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Complete, Cuddling & Snuggling, Deputy Derek, Derek and Stiles are Mates, Emissary Stiles Stilinski, Everyone Is Alive, F/M, Future Fic, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Monster of the Week, Not Beta Read, Pack Feels, Pining Derek, Rebuilt Hale House, Soul Bond, Stubborn Stiles, Tattooed Stiles, What Was I Thinking?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-03-16 18:05:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3497789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vexmybones/pseuds/vexmybones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'It's the sound of angry fists banging on his door that wakes him. Groggily he stumbles out of bed, pulls on sweats that he's pretty sure aren't his, and nearly breaks his neck trying to navigate the stairs. When he manages to jerk the door open he comes face to face with one very pissed off Alpha. And his dad. They're both in uniform.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sunshine on my shoulders

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! Been a few months since I've posted anything but I'm back. Lets get a few things outta the way, shall we?  
> A. This is my first foray into the Teen Wolf fandom (fic wise). I've RP'ed it for a couple years soooo, we'll see how this goes.  
> B. Everyone lives, Rose! Pack wise, because I'm a sucker for happy!pack. Victoria and Gerard are deader than dead.  
> C. 3A happened minus the deaths. Lets pretend Derek and Scott saved Boyd, Erica, and Cora, defeated the mean ole Alpha Pack and they ran off with their tails between their legs. That's it. 3B NEVER happened. EVER.  
> D. Since this is future-fic note this:  
> -Jackson came back from London and became a lawyer. He and Lydia are well, complicated. Lydia is a genius and teaches confusing math.  
> -Derek is Alpha and a deputy.  
> -Scott is a nurse and Allison is a cop.  
> -Erica is a cosmetologist while Boyd and Isaac work construction.  
> -Peter is reformed, dammit and still lives across town.  
> -Cora went back to her life in South America and occasionally comes to visit.  
> -Stiles is pack Emissary and a rare book dealer. He's good at what he does. They all are.  
> E. Ages: I'm taking liberties here because it's my party; Stiles is 27 and for all intents and purposes Derek is 31-ish.  
> Okay, far as I know that's all you need to know for now. If you have any questions ask away. And this is where I shut up because Derek is glaring at me. Please enjoy!

 

 

 

\- _somnio -_ (Latin)

To dream;

to dream of;

imagine foolishly

 

*

 

Sunlight crept across the horizon painting Beacon Hills a shade of pale gold, the birds turning their voices skyward as a new day began. That first wisp of fresh coffee rose from the kitchen and made its way up the stairs, down the hall, and under the door of the master bedroom. A nose twitched, inhaled deeply, as sleep heavy limbs awoke at the first sign of life in the house. Eyes remaining closed, a yawn turned into a still sleepy growl of content. Every day should start like this he thought to himself, slow and eas—

“DAMMIT, ISAAC!”

Derek rolled onto his stomach and smothered a groan of exasperation. _‘That’s more like it.’_ he thought as he listened to Erica toss Isaac’s work boots down the downstairs hall with a curse, then winced as the bathroom door slammed shut. Isaac’s door creaked open a few seconds later with a half-mumbled apology and a comment about PMS. Derek snorted into his pillow and a second later Erica yelled around a mouthful of what had to be toothpaste; “I HEARD THAT!”

Taking that as his cue he rolled out of bed.

 

*

 

With damp hair and bare feet Derek pads on silent feet down the stairs following his nose into the kitchen. Allison stands in front of the stove still in her pajamas and flips bacon while Lydia’s dressed for work and positioned in front of the coffee maker like a dragon guarding a princess. He arches a brow at her and she bares her teeth, to which he flashes crimson eyes. Lydia was the only one allowed to roll her eyes at him this early in the morning, and she did. Religiously. Since rebuilding his childhood home and moving most of the pack in they’d all fallen into an easy rhythm, and one of the first things established was that Lydia got her coffee first. It was an easy agreement seeing as how they always gave him breakfast before anyone else. Being an Alpha again did have its high points.

Moving around the island Derek reaches over Lydia’s head to grab his favorite mug only to find it already on the counter lined up with hers. At Lydia’s huff upon having her personal space invaded he offers her an amused glance before bending and pressing a kiss to her temple. Her smile is genuine when he steps back.

“So, Boyd and Stiles are coming back today… He text you, too?” Allison tosses a look at Derek over her shoulder as he shakes his head. “Oh, well they had a layover and were eating before they got on the plane.”

“What time was that?”

“Scott had just left, so around two-ish this morning.”

He rolls his eyes but the side of his mouth tilts up just a bit. You’d think the way that Stiles ate that he was one of the betas and that he was nocturnal with the hours he kept. He’d been kept awake many a night with Stiles’ random texting habits, and he’d be lying if he said it hadn’t grown on him.

“Will you be here when they get in?” Lydia chimes in with her steaming mug cradled preciously in her hands, his own now full and sitting at her elbow.

“No. I’m not off till Friday. She,” he motions at Allison, “however is and I think Isaac is staying home, too.”

“I AM.”

Praying for patience at the unnecessary shout from upstairs, Derek reaches for his coffee and takes a grateful sip, humming in appreciation. Allison eyes their drinks with envy as she starts on the eggs and toast, smiling at him and Lydia.

“Why? Do you need me to pick something up, Lyds?”

“Oh, no. I was only curious. We are still having an actual dinner tonight though, right?” She glances at Derek and smiles when he confirms with a nod.

Stepping over to the stove, Derek takes another drink of his coffee before gently tugging on the back of Allison’s (Scott’s) t-shirt. Her movements stilling as he pulls her away from the food. Handing her his half-full mug and trading it for her spatula, he brushes his lips against her brow, the sentiment just as sweet as the one he’d given Lydia moments before. It’d taken a little while longer for them to come to terms with each other but after more than a few arguments and tears (on both their parts) they’d simply resigned themselves to the fact that they were irrevocably stuck in each others’ lives. Instead of returning the affectionate gesture, she smiles up at him and gleefully inhales his coffee. He’ll take that over an arrow any day.

 

*

 

Thirty minutes later finds him seated at the round kitchen table with Isaac’s arm draped over the back of his chair and head smushed against Derek’s left bicep. Erica’s glaring at the beta while he, Lydia, and Allison ignore everyone. It’s the typical morning in the Hale house, minus a certain loud mouth and Scott falling asleep in his eggs coming off of a third shift at the hospital. Stuffing another bite of toast into his mouth he recalls when Lydia had had the bright idea to force him to go shopping with Stiles and Cora for furniture:

_“Come on, it’ll be like we’re knights!”_

_“No, Stiles.”_

_"But we can get this one for the kitchen and a rectangle one for the dining room.”_

_"He has a point, Derek.”_

He’d glared at his sister and her betrayal. Derek hated when Stiles was right.

“Scott’s home.”

At Derek’s statement Allison pushes back from the table and excuses herself, Lydia draining the last dregs of her coffee with her eye on the last piece of toast. He watches on in amusement as Beacon Hills’ current Mathematician extraordinaire (and proud Fields Medal recipient for something that Derek had absolutely no interest in whatsoever, he’d always hated math) stares down a glowing eyed beta over a piece of buttered bread. At least he usually gets a show with his meals he thinks idly. Allison reenters the kitchen with a yawning Scott trailing her, his face breaking out into a tired smile at the food and the occupants of the table. Giving a wave he plops into a seat opposite Isaac and grabs the golden toast practically shoving the entire damn thing into his mouth.

Sitting back with a laugh and jarring Isaac from his doze, Derek smirks as Lydia and Erica both bark at Scott who looks at them with wide eyes and a mumbled “What?!” Scowling, Erica downs her orange juice and stands, sliding her chair back in she ruffles Isaac’s hair as she passes and leans down to peck Derek’s scruffy jaw.

“I might be late tonight, save me some food.”

Nodding, he shoves Isaac up and watches the blonde wave at everyone else before leaving the room, the front door closing seconds later. Scooting back from his own place, he winks at the girls and stands. Tossing Lydia his car keys he grasps a hand at the nape of Scott’s neck and gets a cheesy eggtastic grin in return. Rolling his eyes, Derek lightly knocks his knuckles against the back of his second in command’s head.

“Go to bed before Stiles gets here. You’re not sleeping in my bed again.”

“Not like I could help where we passed out, man.”

“Your feet stink and he drools.”

“Derek, you’re going to be late for work.”

Stealing a slice of bacon off of Scott’s plate he sidesteps his immediate swing and sighs. He never thought he’d be a cop, but one thing had led to another and here he was, Deputy Derek as Stiles liked to call him, repeatedly. Allison was also on the force due to her surprising connection with the Sheriff but Stiles didn’t pester her about it. Maybe it was because she wouldn’t hesitate to rough him up. Derek was starting to rethink his stance on ‘tough love’.

“Tell Boyd to check in when they get home.”

“What about Stiles?”

Giving Allison’s seemingly innocent question a glare, he ignores the small knowing look that passes between her and Lydia and leaves without another word. As he ‘suits up’ (he really needed to stop letting Stiles pick Marvel movies for movie nights) he can’t help but let his thoughts wander into that thick forest in his mind. Where the air reeked of spicy, tantalizing human, the lightning flickering in the sky a mere sliver of the spark that was safely ensconced behind bone and beating heart. Everything hidden there in that part of his mind threatened to overwhelm him on a daily basis, but he was a Hale and they knew how to hold onto their control. The whispers of _mate/bond/soul_ were kept hushed and strangled when around the source.

Derek lived day by day siphoning little hits like a drug addict, an arm thrown over his shoulders, a hand shoved annoyingly into his face, cold toes tucked under his thigh. Stiles was as tactile as the rest of the pack, but Derek knew that destiny wasn’t real, didn’t (wouldn’t) believe in it in any way shape or form. And so he ignored the urge to _take_ , instead opting to shun and play stupid. If the others in the pack knew of his true feelings… well, they knew better than to outright say anything. Stiles was his Emissary, Scott’s brother, and invaluable to the dynamic of their pack, nothing more. No matter what his gut told him.

Slipping out onto the porch Derek closes that door in his mind and locks it up tight as he walks towards his cruiser. Once inside he ignores the persistent rattling against his conscious and turns the engine over, the radios thankfully coming to life and offering him a welcome distraction. Putting the car into reverse he backs out around the Camaro Lydia would be driving to work and takes off down the twisting and forest lined private drive.

 

* * *

 

“If you touch that dial one more time, I swear I will bite you.”

“Dude, I hate that song!”

“Then how do you know all of the words?”

“Because they play it constantly and Erica thinks she’s cute and somehow hacked into my phone and set it as Derek’s ringtone!”

At that Boyd laughs and Stiles flashes him a disgruntled glare, huffing with annoyance, his gaze settles back on the road stretched out in front of them. After a three hour layover their flight had finally taken off and Stiles had slept the entire time while Boyd stuck his nose in a book. He didn’t like to sleep on planes in case anything happened and he needed to be alert. While Stiles understood, because, their _luck_ , he found it silly and thought it stunk of Alpha.

“Not funny, Vernon. I do not have a blank space, therefore I will not be writing anyone’s name.”

Boyd just laughs harder.

 

*

 

Two hours later they pull up to the house in Derek’s mom car which had been conveniently left at the airport for them, only to find Allison’s Mazda the only vehicle there. Cutting the engine Stiles unfolds from the car with a groan, stretching his muscles after being cramped in small spaces for so long. Meanwhile Boyd already has dumped their bags from the back and is holding out Stiles’ leather bag to him. Stiles grabs it and slings it around his shoulders, the weight as comforting as the runes that were etched into the supple brown material. Reaching for his rolling suitcase as Boyd takes up his own he twirls the keys around his finger.

“I am so ready to eat everything and sprawl. I hate planes.”

“I know, you keep reminding me.”

“It’s to pay you back for eating my tacos.”

“They had guacamole on them. You hate that.”

Stiles pauses mid-step and stares at his friend’s back. He never remembered telling anyone he didn’t like the green stuff. _Huh._ The front door opens before they reach the porch and Allison grins at them.

“Welcome home!”

Boyd gives her a one armed squeeze in passing but she blocks the entrance when Stiles steps up. She eyes him for a minute while he pretends to inspect his cuticles (Lydia was going to murder him for biting at them again while away). Glancing up into the hunter’s eyes he can’t stop the smile that curves his lips as he snaps his fingers together producing a spark.

“Show off.”

“Aw, I missed you too, Jellybean!”

“Ugh, what did I tell you about that?”

“If you’re going to arrest me, _kinky_ I might add, for a nickname then I demand a last meal.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Smirking, Stiles wraps her up into a tight hug. The best part about coming home for him was that he got to be clingy and no one would question it. Yes, he was a human amongst wolves (and a banshee) but he liked to exploit the pack’s cuddling tendencies every chance he was presented with. He needed love too, dammit. Releasing Allison, Stiles grabs his suitcase again and follows her into the house, a happy sigh leaving his chest.

“Scott’s asleep and already ate, but I can warm you something up while you go get comfy if you want?”

“Marry me?”

“Make it an October wedding and I want a new crossbow in the place of a diamond.”

“I love you.”

Pecking his cheek Allison pushes him towards the stairs and takes her leave. Stiles glares at the curving staircase and wills himself to apparate up into ‘his’ room. When it doesn’t work he hefts up his bags and trudges up the steps. Normally he’d have gone straight back to the loft but he figured it’d be easier just to crash at Hale House as he’d named it to annoy said Hale. He very much enjoyed annoying Derek and was pretty sure that it was in his nonexistent contract as pack Emissary to do just that.

Yes, he’d taken on that title straight out of high school even though Deaton hadn’t anointed him as an actual magic-man until two years into college. There had been a lot of blood, some self sacrificing, and a wicked scar that trailed like a snake next to his spine. He’d had it artfully tattooed around so it was literally a snake now but no one knew that, not even Scott. This was why when everyone had returned home from college and exploring the world and Derek had finally decided to rebuild, that Stiles had jumped at the chance to occupy the Alpha’s empty space. He could practice his craft there without the fear of accidentally harming one of his friends, and even the good vet had agreed that it was the ideal arrangement. If his self appointed semi-solitary lifestyle gave him more freedom than he knew what to do with, if he was a little more (a _lot_ ) well learned in the magic than everyone suspected, well…

So he was able to mask pain and minor injuries (like healing tattoos), he wasn’t hurting anyone. He was an asset to the pack and he knew it. Just because he was a sarcastic shit ninety percent of the time and the comedic relief the other nine didn’t mean that for the remaining one percent he didn’t take his position very seriously. Living in the loft and crashing at the Hale House at least once a week was good for everyone in his opinion. At least this way they couldn’t get fed up with him and eat him in his sleep!

 

*

 

After stowing his crap and showering off the travel stench Stiles slips down the hall in sock encased feet and sneaks into Scott and Allison’s room where his best friend is snoring away. Bending down he whispers in his ear an “I’m home, buddy.” and is rewarded with a snuffle. Smiling, Stiles cards a hand through his best friend’s messy hair before leaving him to his bunny chasing dreams. Back downstairs Stiles heads straight to the kitchen where Allison is stirring something that makes his mouth water.

“Grab us a drink and I’ll dish it up.”

“You didn’t eat with Scott?” Stiles asks opening the fridge and rooting around until he finds their beer in the back.

“A little but I wanted to hang out with you. I tried a different recipe.”

“Your mom’s chili?”

She nods with a small smile as she ladles heavenly stuff into bowls giving him more than an extra spoonful. They settle around the table side by side and facing the window that looks out onto the backyard. He takes a huge bite and doesn’t hold back the obscene moan that the flavors erupting on his tongue cause. Allison’s smile stretches into a full out grin.

“I tweaked it a bit.”

“I’m moving the wedding up to next month. Think Scott will be my best man?”

“Hm… the outcome looks doubtful.”

Nudging her elbow playfully Stiles digs into his meal. They make small talk about the week that he and Boyd were in Texas working on treaties with another pack, which was all just an excuse for Stiles to meet one of Deaton’s contacts. Grimoires were like money to the magical community, and the more you had the richer you were. Deaton was a secret millionaire and Stiles was quickly working on his own nice little nest egg. Another plus to living in the loft, he had so much room to use. He had books everywhere from picture books his mom used to read him to a grimoire that dated back to the damn dark ages. Yeah, his cover as a rare book purveyor was well earned. (Had to make a living somehow.)

Stuffed to the gills, he retires to the massive living room with Allison and ends up sprawling out along one of the three couches that form a ‘U’ in front of a flat screen and whatever Boyd and Isaac are watching. It doesn’t take more than five minutes till Isaac is worming his way between Stiles and the back of the couch. He grunts too tired to move and lets the curly haired nuisance maneuver him like a life-sized teddy bear. The last thing he takes note of before his lids turn into concrete weights is Allison’s smile as she drapes a throw over them.

 

*

 

When he wakes up it’s all at once, one second sound asleep and the next he’s alert and heart pounding. He inhales sharply as his vision comes into focus, the TV now off, everyone missing, and a lamp on low somewhere over his head. Stretching languidly, he starts at an amused snuff behind him. Craning his neck he takes in an upside down Derek by all appearances studiously reading a book on the left couch. Stiles flops back down and drags a hand over his face before sitting up and tossing the throw over the back of the couch he’s on.

“How many times have you read the same sentence over in the past ten minutes?”

“Five. At the least.”

“Creeper.”

“Peter’s in the kitchen if you want him.”

“Fucker.”

“Jackson politely declined the invitation for dinner tonight but he’ll be here ten minutes late as usual.”

“Sourwolf.”

Stiles smiles unashamedly smug as he sees the second Derek gives in and closes the book with a sigh.

“Your dad’s on his way.”

“He have to pick up Melissa?”

“She’s in the kitchen. Lydia picked her up after work.”

“How long was I asleep?”

“Four hours.” Stiles groans at that and heaves to his feet, lifting his arms over his head and ignoring the eyes boring into him as he stretches the kinks out of his frame. That is until Derek is suddenly two feet away from him and reaching for the hem of his shirt where it’s rucked up and, _oh shit_. Fingers wrap around his forearm and tug him sideways until Derek has a clear view of the ink that peeks out of his waistband over his left hip. The tail of the snake sits just under the nape of his neck (not to be seen), the body slithering down the left side of his spine where an axe almost ended his life, and curving just over his hip the head rests. He doesn’t go without a shirt for more reasons than being self conscious, obviously.

His ineffective swatting hand drops to his side as Derek jerks his shirt up for a closer inspection. Stiles sighs deeply and counts to ten before he tries to twist out of the werewolf’s grip. The fingers on his arm tighten into a warning.

“When?”

“That trip to Indiana to meet with the Sawyer Emissary.”

“How did I not know?”

“I spelled myself.”

“ _Stiles…_ ” His name is laced with a ripple of Alpha command and forced through gritted teeth. He has enough sense to visibly wince as the bottom of his stomach drops out when he meets Derek’s angry red gaze.

“The scales are runes, and each one represents a member of my family, _our_ pack. I was taking precautions, okay? Can you blame me?”

The red bleeds back to angry steel/green (what the fuck color were his eyes other than mesmerizing anyway?) and Stiles ignores the wave of familiar guilt that trickles down his spine. He’s become a fucking pro at ignoring things when it comes to the man standing in front of him. Derek doesn’t respond, instead he lets go of Stiles and steps back, his voice dangerously soft when he speaks.

“We’ll talk about this later. The Sheriff just pulled in.”

With that Derek leaves Stiles standing in the living room alone. Taking a deep resetting breath he moves towards the front door and flings it open with an overly bright smile plastered across his face just as his dad shuts his car door. It becomes a little less fake when strong arms wrap around him and he’s enveloped with warmth and Old Spice.

“Glad you made it back safe and sound, son.”

“Me too, old man!”

“Smartass. Come on, I’m starved.”

Laughing, Stiles slings an arm around his dad’s shoulders and leads him into the house. Once in the kitchen he abandons him as soon as he sets eyes on Lydia and pushes his dad in Melissa’s direction on his way towards his conquest. John laughs with a shake of his head as Stiles slips his arms around her waist from behind and bends down to press loud and annoying kisses to the bare skin of her shoulder. He gets an elbow to his ribs for his trouble.

“Haven’t seen you in a week and this is the reception I get? Good thing I made plans to marry Allison instead of you.”

Scott’s head pops up comically from the table where he’d been sitting a bowl down with a strangled sound of confusion. Stiles waves him off and best friend that he is shrugs and goes back to what he’d been doing. This is one reason of about a million why he loved him.

“You couldn’t handle her _or_ me, Stiles.” Scoffing, he removes his arms and pouts while everyone in the kitchen nods or hums their agreement.

“You wound me.”

“You’ll live.”

“No one asked for your opinion, Isaac.”

Twenty seven years old and his friends still stick their tongues out like petulant children. (Stiles returns the gesture.)

“Batman!!!”

“Someone got laid…” Derek raps his palm against the back of Isaac’s skull for that remark as Stiles spins around just in time to be assaulted by a curtain of blonde hair. (And cleavage, ample cleavage.) Erica smacks a kiss to his cheek and beams at him.

“See, this is why you’re my favorite. At least you _pretend_ that you missed me while I was gone. Unlike these other traitorous heathens.”

“It’s the least I can do.”

“Okay children, enough, I’m hungry.”

“You heard the Sheriff, move it! Scott, I don’t care how old you are, get out of the green beans.”

“Aw, mom…”

 

*

 

As predicted Jackson shows up after they’re seated and slips into his seat between Allison and John. Stiles keep up conversation for most of the meal but towards the end he’s wilting like a damp flower. Beside him Peter arches a brow and Stiles shrugs with a yawn. Apparently his battery was draining and his body needed to fully recharge instead of catching small cat naps. He says as much as he pushes back from the table and begs off.

Saying goodbye to his dad and promising to stop by for lunch one day, he mock salutes the table and trails out of the room and upstairs. After a quick stop by the bathroom he strips down to his boxers and collapses face first onto his bed with a minty fresh yawn. The quiet murmur of his pack downstairs and the ticking of the clock in the hall lulls him into a comfortable daze as he blinks sleepily at his bags that he’d stashed in the corner earlier. A glint of silver sticking out of his leather bag catches his eye but a wide yawn that makes his eyes water and his vision swim force his attention to the back of his eyelids. Sleep swaddles him and he’s out in a blink.

 

* * *

 

_He watches in abject horror as the hunter struggles to his feet and adjusts his hold on the axe that he’d been swinging around like some kind of barbarian. Derek opens his mouth to shout at Stiles, the stupid, human idiot that had insisted on coming with them but he finds his voice gone, a mere whimper. He tries to roar instead hoping that Stiles will be smart enough to dive behind a tree or duck down,_ something _, anything but continue running towards Derek. But of course he doesn’t stop and Derek’s heart does for an agonizing second as the hunter raises his arm over his head, the sunlight that filters down into the now bloody woods glinting off of the metal._

_“STILES!” Scott growls around elongated canines as he throws a man twice his size into a nearby tree._

_Stiles keeps running._

_Derek loses the ability to function as all of the growls and noise of battle seem to fade into the background, the sound of the axe as it slices into the air the only thing he knows. He watches it happen in slow motion, a macabre act from a terrible play, as the blade strikes Stiles in the back and sends him crashing right into Derek’s hands. The boy’s eyes are wide and terrified and when he tries to speak he coughs, bloody spittle speckling Derek’s ashen face. He misses the way Scott and Boyd rush the hunter at once and savagely decapitate the man. He misses the way as Allison takes down the last hunter with an arrow to the heart that everything goes eerily silent, not even a bird chirping in the aftermath. He wraps confused arms around Stiles as they both go down to their knees, ignoring the way that Stiles’ blood scorches his arms._

_It’s in that moment Derek knows that he’d well and truly failed. He doesn’t realize that he’s apologizing with every ragged breath, nor does he acknowledge the slide of tears down his dirty face. Peter’s fury filled “Bite him, Derek!” goes ignored as Stiles somehow manages to give Derek a bloody grimace of a smile with the last vestiges of his strength._

_When Stiles’ eyes close and his body falls limp in Derek’s arms the Alpha’s roar of unadulterated grief and rage is accompanied only by the sound of Lydia’s agonized, piercing wail._

*

Derek jerks awake with a gasp, the phantom sounds of his nightmare ringing in his ears as he kicks at the sweat damp cover that clings to his frame. Sitting up he swings his legs over the side of his bed and tries to catch his breath. He wills the visions from his gruesome past to vanish as he takes breath after breath with his hands still shaking where they hang loosely between his thighs. For nearly seven years he’d had the same nightmare, the details etched into his brain like a brand. Stiles had gone as far as to shake hands with Death just trying to save Derek and if it hadn’t been for Deaton and the Spark inside of Stiles, he wouldn’t have lived. They’d always saved each others’ lives, it was their thing, but after that time, Derek had been forced to reevaluate their dynamic. Agreeing to let Stiles be his Emissary, giving him free reign of the loft, a room in his house, and offering to give him anything that was within his power was little compared to what Stiles had done for him. For them.

Seeing Stiles’ tattoo the night before had reopened some wounds he’d thought he had stitched together. The way the ink curled over his skin skirting the axe’s scar, and knowing that the runes were for the pack had left Derek reeling. The idiot had literally died and gotten a second chance and yet he still insisted on going to any length he could think of to protect them. Derek was completely positive that he would never understand the man that Stiles had become.

Glancing at the clock he sighs and pushes to his feet, moving into his attached bathroom and directly into a cold shower. Washing away his unease, he doesn’t linger instead deciding to go down and make breakfast for the pack for a change. After drying off and pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a well loved t-shirt Derek slips from his room at the end of the hall and pauses. He listens to the heartbeats of his pack and centers himself with a cleansing inhale.

When he was a kid his mom always came and checked on him and his siblings even though she could listen to their every breath and heartbeat from floors down, and Derek finds himself walking in her shoes. Pushing the door on the left open first, he listens to Isaac’s even breathing for three beats before pulling it back shut. The cracked door on the right reveals Stiles curled on his side with his back to the wall, his blanket half in the floor. Derek pads on light feet into the room and picks up the cover and drapes it back over Stiles’ sleeping form. Hesitantly he tugs the material up to cover a bare shoulder before he gives into temptation to lean down and place his lips against the skin. He slips from the room silently.

On quiet feet Derek climbs the stairs that lead up to Lydia’s attic ( _“I do NOT live in an attic, Derek, it’s the third floor.”)_ bedroom, his knuckles easing the door open half an inch and finding her teal colored bedspread pulled up all the way over her ears. With a small fond smile he heads back down and to Scott and Allison’s room. Allison, being a lighter sleeper than most of the werewolves in the house raises her head the second he pushes the door open. When she sees it’s only him she offers him a sleepy smile as Scott snores on. Derek nods and backs out and heads downstairs. Erica and Boyd’s room sits under Isaac’s and always has a dim light on. They’re wrapped around each other, blonde curls lying stark against rich chocolate skin and Derek sighs in contentment that they’re both breathing and under his roof.

Once he’d thought himself unfit to be an Alpha (still does on occasion if he’s honest) but having them all within reach and knowing that they rely on him and each other settles something down in his bones. Even though Peter and Cora are the only actual family he has left alive, he prides himself on the fact that he’s rebuilt his life with this ragtag group. And he wouldn’t change anything. He swears. (He’s lying.)

 

*

 

Thirty minutes later and there’s coffee brewing, biscuits in the oven and bacon sizzling on the stove. Stiles is the first one up (he knows when the floorboards overhead creak) so he gets out a mug and pours it and filling it full of sugar and creamer. He sets it out on the island and turns back to the stove.

“Guuuhnhg.”

“Eloquent.”

“Mm, I love you.”

The spatula scrapes across the pan and would have gone flying if it weren’t for supernatural reflexes as Derek’s head snaps around, gazing wide-eyed at the rumpled mess across the counter. Stiles has his mug cradled to his chest and his eyes closed, nose hovering above the steaming liquid as he inhales the aroma. Derek quickly turns back around before he’s caught, his brows furrowing at the bacon in the pan while Stiles continues to coo at his damn coffee.

“Why are you up so early?”

“Got hungry.”

Stiles snorts at his lame excuse and shuffles around the island to lean a hip next to the stove, watching him poke at the bacon.  He stabs at it until the timer goes off and he grabs a potholder to get the biscuits out. Stiles just sips his coffee like he has all the time in the world and Derek is the most entertaining thing in his line of vision.

“Get the eggs out if you want an omelet.”

“Dude, are you sure you don’t have a fever?”

Derek simply glares at him till he does as he’s told.

“Why are _you_ up so early?” he asks while whisking eggs and Stiles shrugs a shoulder up.

“I was going to steal the Camaro and head to the loft. I need to unpack and I have about six hours until I have to drop by Deaton’s anyway.”

“Lydia has the car this week, you can just use the other.”

“But…”

“Take it or leave it.” Derek arches a brow at Stiles when he huffs into his mug. When his Jeep had given up the ghost Stiles hadn’t ever bothered to get a different vehicle. There really was no point since they all lived in one place anyway. Derek and Allison almost always have a police cruiser, he still has the Camaro and the ‘mom car’, and Scott drives Allison’s Mazda. Isaac and Boyd share a pickup, Lydia has a Beetle (which was currently in the shop), and Erica has a second hand car her parents had gotten her when she’d become a certified cosmetologist. In other words, everyone shared. It just worked that way.

“Fine,” Stiles sighs and drains his cup, turning to refill it while Derek flips the perfectly fluffy omelet in the skillet. Yeah, while he doesn’t do it often he is a pretty damn good cook if he says so himself. If the moan Stiles makes when he bites into it five minutes later is any indication, well then…Upstairs his pack comes to life with the birds that begin chirping and Stiles sucks down his third cup of sugar. Derek’s plating another omelet just how Erica likes it when Stiles rubs his stomach and sets his dishes in the sink.

“Thanks for breakfast, Derek, and the use of the mom car. I’ll drop it by tomorrow at the latest.”

“Put gas in it.”

“Don’t I always?” Stiles pokes a finger into Derek’s side and it takes quite a bit of control to remain in place. Damn ticklish spots. Derek gives him his best ‘Are you serious?’ look and Stiles winces. “Okay, maybe I forget sometimes, but I will this time! Okaaay, I’m out of here. Call me if you need me.”

With that Stiles breezes out of the kitchen much more awake than when he came in and Derek watches him disappear down the hall. There’s a knot of _want_ in his stomach, that, he’s used to but it’s the anticipation that’s putting him off. He feels like he’s waiting on something to happen, something to land in his lap (no pun intended). The contentment from an hour ago has been shoved to the side by some unseen hand. Derek cuts the stove off after setting the table and makes sure to start fresh coffee before heading towards the backdoor where he ties up his running shoes, pulls on a random hoodie (smells like Boyd’s), and escapes out onto the brisk morning air. He hears a sleepy-voiced Erica ask what smells so good just as he steps into the tree line and takes off.


	2. Slumber Party!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little drinking, a little dancing, and show and tell...

 

 

 

The door of the loft rolling open is music to Stiles’ ears. He inhales that old book smell mingled with the candles that Lydia insisted on buying him (and using every time she came over) and smiles. Wheeling his suitcase into the room, he heaves the door closed and pulls the strap of his leather bag over his shoulder while he kicks his shoes off. With a snap of his fingers a zing of electricity skates down his spine when his wards hum to life.

“Home, sweet home,” he sighs as he moves towards the couch and plops ungracefully down and into a lazy sprawl. Resting his head back, Stiles closes his eyes simply letting himself realign with the ever present magic that thrums through his hometown. He always waits till he’s alone to (really) tap into his Spark lest he make the wolves nervous and Allison’s trigger finger itchy. You get a little carried away _one_ time and _accidentally_ make your eyes glow white and everyone freaks the fuck out. Seriously, he thought they were going to call a priest (or the Winchesters, it was hilarious.). So he’d learnt the hard way to keep a tight leash on his magic and it was a small price to pay because it was _awesome_.

He jumps and does not squeak like a frightened girl when his phone begins to vibrate in his pocket, ‘Black Widow’ piercing the quiet stillness. He seriously needed to find a better password so Erica couldn’t hack it constantly. Though he had to admit the song was fitting for Lydia. Leaning to the left he digs into his jeans and plucks the offending device from his pocket, automatically thumbing the screen to answer the call.

“Hello, love of my life.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Bambi.”

“You are spending too much time around Werewolf Barbie if you’re starting to use her nicknames.”

“Shut up. Have you gone to Deaton’s yet?”

“No, I just got home, why?”

“He has a book he asked me to translate.”

“And you want me to play fetch?”

“Yes, please.”

“And what do I get out of this deal?”

“Gossip and ice cream, if you get that too. I’ll be there after the PTA meeting.”

“Sleepy Hollow, too and it’s a deal.”

“Why you have a fascination with the supernatural with the life we live I will never understand. Chinese at seven and don’t forget my book! Love you.”

“Chinese? Wait, what? Lydia?” Stiles pulls the phone away from his ear to see that the call’s been ended. “Love you, too, jeeze,” he mutters and falls over to his left side with a grunt. Since the nightmare that had been their high school years he and Lydia had grown closer, even tried dating for all of a month. That had been a disaster and ended with them both drunk, crying, laughing, and passing out in Chris Argent’s bed. They’d vowed to never speak of that again and never touch another drop of tequila. And Argent had vowed to ban them from crashing there again, life or death situation be damned, if they ever did. That had been a hell of a birthday.

Rolling off the couch before he gets too comfortable, Stiles plugs his phone in, gathers his bags, and heads upstairs to unpack. It only takes ten minutes to dump clothes in the hamper and create a new leaning tower of books on his desk before he turns to his leather bag. It had been a birthday present from the pack (Derek) on his twenty fourth and was one of his most prized possessions. The runes had been etched into it by an elder of some tribe up in Washington (he doesn’t want to note the similarities with that and a certain series, but he laughs every time Scott’s nose scrunches up at the Jacob references).

With reverent hands he opens it up and pulls out the cloth wrapped bundle of knickknacks that he’d acquired from his trip. He always came back with something, as was his tradition. His mom had always gotten some little something wherever they went on vacation and he’d carried on the habit, much to his father’s amusement. Laying it on the bed he then unloads a leather bound journal and his laptop. Setting them aside, Stiles carefully untangles his trinkets from the old and hideously floral scarf the woman had folded them in and smiles.

A tiny wooden owl with big fake and dully shining jewel eyes peers up at him alongside a faded, green magnet shaped like Gumby. The magnet will find a home on his fridge door along with his other ones he thinks as he sets the owl on his desk, wedging it between a pile of books and a jar of mountain ash. Grabbing the scarf up he figures he can wash it and give it to one of the girls or Melissa; they usually fall all over his odd gifts. A clink of something hitting the floor has him looking down to find a necklace at his feet, and bending down he scoops up the silver chain and the matching little charm that swings from it. It looks like some kind of seed or flower pod and he feels a momentary pulse in his veins when he touches it with his fingertips. Not finding it threatening he shrugs and counts it as a plus because he doesn’t remember buying it, and puts it on deciding to look it up later.

Glancing at the clock he swears and searches for clean clothes, stripping his clothes off on his way to the bathroom. He’d promised his dad lunch and has other shit to do before Deaton’s, so he takes a quick shower foregoing shaving his slight scruff and fixing his hair. Once he’s somewhat presentable (read: comfortable in jeans and a hoodie) he makes his way downstairs and grabs his phone, gives Gumby a new home next to a picture of him and Isaac dripping wet and flipping the camera (Erica) off, and leaves the loft.

 

*

 

“Stiles, it’s good to see you, man,” Parrish smiles brightly at him and points a thumb behind him towards his dad’s office. “He just got back in.”

Nodding, Stiles matches the deputy’s grin and skirts around the desk tossing a ‘Thanks.’ over his shoulder. Shouldering his way into the Sheriff’s office his dad looks up and sighs in relief. Stiles isn’t sure if it’s for the greasy food or him, he’s going with the food, though.

“Bacon?” he inquires with a wide-eyed and hopeful voice and Stiles would even say that it’s a bit of a desperate expression he wears.

“Now what kind of son would I be if I sat here and ate a big juicy burger complete with cheese, onions, and bacon while my dear ole dad ate a rabbit’s lunch?”

“ _My_ son.” Stiles laughs sitting the bags down on a clear corner of the desk and takes a seat across from his dad.

“While you do have a point, I have it on good authority that you were not terrible while I was away so I’ve decided to be only slightly evil today.”

Handing over said burger, he watches John’s eyes light up. Then he wilts when Stiles sets a container of apple slices down next to it. Fighting back another laugh, Stiles gets out his own burger and curly fries and nudges one of the two drinks towards the man. His dad’s grumble of ‘Only _slightly_ evil, humph.’ makes him snort.

While they eat they catch up, bicker, and de-stress. He ends up giving up half of his fries and is wiping his greasy fingers on a napkin when Parrish raps his knuckles on the door and pokes his head in. Due to an attempted robbery they have to cut it short and his dad rushes out of the room with Jordan on his heels leaving Stiles to clean up their lunch. When he steps out of the office a few minutes later he comes face to face with Derek. In uniform. He does not understand the things that the sight causes inside of him, nor does he want to look too deep into it.

“Whoa there, Deputy.”

“Hello to you, too.”

“Hello and goodbye, actually. You just missed dad.”

“I know, he told us you were here.” Derek raises an eyebrow at him and Stiles tries to mimic it but fails miserably.

“Oh. Well, I’m leaving now so you can continue to fight the good fight!”

“Are you coming back…tonight?”

“Lydia said she’s got work after work so I’m going with no. Hi, Stiles.”

“Hey, Alli.” Stiles leans around Derek to smile at the brunette before looking back to the Alpha. “She’s right, Deputy Derek, I’m stealing Lydia away to my den of debauchery after her teacher stuff. We’re going to Sleepy Hollow tonight.”

“Oooh, can I come?” Allison asks as she perches on the corner of a nearby desk. Derek steps to the side (slightly) so Stiles can see her.

“Sure, why not. Bring Erica and we’ll have a slumber party. Just us girls!” He winks at Allison when she snickers at him. Derek crosses his arms over his chest and Stiles has a hard time not crossing himself and saying a prayer at the way the black fabric of his rolled up sleeves band around his bulging forearms. He’s not even Catholic.

“Junk food?”

“Ice cream, you know what we like. I’m getting Chinese, too.”

“Why can’t you just come to the house and do this?”

“Aw, is Der-Bear jealous that he can’t come get his claws painted?”

At the flash of red in the werewolf’s gaze Stiles takes that as a no and taps an invisible watch on his wrist. “Would you look at the time! I’m late for a very important date. No time to say hello, goodbye, I’m late, I’m late, I’m late!” Patting a palm against Derek’s arm, he moves past him, fistbumps Allison, and hightails it out of the station. Always late, completely mad, he was definitely some kind of weird fusion of the Mad Hatter and White Rabbit. Whistling, he crosses the lot to Derek’s mom car and heads towards the animal clinic.

 

*

 

“That’s an interesting necklace, Stiles.”

“Huh,” Stiles glances up from the book on medicinal herbs he’s bent over as Deaton points at the chain that’s hanging from his lip where he’d been toying with it. “Oh, thanks! I found it in the stuff I got in Texas. It’s weird.”

“So you put it on?”

“Yep,” he pops his ‘P’ letting the chain fall back to his chest.

“Do you know what the charm is?”

“Some seed or pod? I haven’t had a chance to look it up yet.”

“May I?” Stiles nods at Deaton’s gesture and takes the chain off, handing it over. He watches him check it out and ‘hmm’ at it before handing it back. “It’s a poppy pod,” the vet speaks as he turns to a shelf pulling down a book and leafing through it. “Ah, here it is. This might be of interest to you.”

Stiles takes the book but before he can glimpse at the page the bell out front chimes and his phone chooses that moment to ring shrilly. With a pat to his shoulder and a departing reminder of Lydia’s ‘homework’ Deaton goes back to work. Stiles tugs the chain back around his neck and answers his phone. He packs up his books, making nice with an Emissary he met in Arizona a couple years back, and ducks out the back door.

By the time he hangs up he’s at the grocery store and he’s running late. Apparently he’d spent more time at Deaton’s than he’d thought. It takes him twenty minutes to grab the essentials (milk, cereal, eggs, bacon, beer, bread, and toilet paper) along with junk food for the night and by the time he gets away from the chatty cashier he’s definitely late. Once in the car he calls in the Chinese and swings by to get it before going home. He curses every red light on his way and hopes Lydia didn’t try to break his wards like last time. She’d ended up with singed hair and didn’t speak to him for three days.

Unfortunately for him when he pulls into his parking lot there’s a cruiser sitting in it next to Erica’s car. ‘ _Crapshitcrap’_ is his mantra as he hefts his ratty backpack, their dinner, and the groceries up to the loft. Surprisingly there isn’t anyone in his hall waiting to get in and he doesn’t have to kick at the door to be let in like a dog because when he rounds the corner the door’s wide open. There’s music and light spilling from within and he stops at the threshold at the sight that greets him. It’s like a scene out of some distant and foggy dream that he can’t quite recall. Allison, Erica, and Lydia all have their hair down, are barefoot and in pajamas of varying bright colors, have drinks in their hands, and are dancing around his space. They’ve found his playlists and hooked his laptop up to his speakers he rarely uses, and a smoky voice croons along with a wailing electric guitar about the woes of loving a ‘Black Magic Woman’.

He stands as if in a trance watching them, the way their hair shivers with every step, the way their bodies move in seemingly perfect synchronization…  And for a fleeting moment everything changes. The music morphs into something ancient, a haunting melody with horns and drums, and the girls transform themselves. Their hair lengthens down their backs like snakes, their clothes twist into flowing transparent gowns, and the way in which they dance sends a spear of recognition into his gut so strong that his heart literally skips a beat.

Erica grabbing the food out of his arms snaps him out of it, reality righting itself as she offers him a questioning look. Allison plucks his backpack from him as he repositions the grocery bags with a “You okay?” and he can only nod and give them a smile. Lydia continues to sip her drink and ignores his strange behavior, just how he prefers it.

“How’d you get in?” he asks on his way to the kitchen where he puts things away, throwing the toilet paper at Erica to put in the bathroom while Allison and Lydia move around him to deal out their supper. He notes the nearly empty pitcher of margaritas by the sink and shoots a look at the banshee.

“I called Danny. And don’t worry we’ll make more.”

“That bastard,” Stiles mutters and sticks his tongue out at Allison when she hip-checks him out of the way to get to the silverware. Although they didn’t see a lot of their friend they kept in touch with him. After dating an Alpha he’d taken to the strange and unusual with a frighteningly good attitude and made a point to learn everything he could. Magic included. One close call because of mistletoe had been one too many for him. Stiles doesn’t blame him.

 

*

 

They eat in the living room and gossip like Lydia promised, really, it’s what he lives for. He’s an eighty year old woman to hear his dad tell it. Allison talks about her dad and how he’s a couple weeks away from coming back home, his annual trip to Paris just not the same without one of the pack there to bother him to death. Erica whines because Boyd wants to wait for some reason to have a baby and goes into gruesome details of how she’s been attempting to trick him into it. She scares Stiles something fierce sometimes. And Lydia, she finally divulges the best news he’s heard in a while.

“Wait,” Stiles says through a mouthful of sesame chicken which he chews and swallows too quickly making Allison beat him on the back when he almost gets choked. After a drink he motions (more like flails) across the coffee table at Lydia where she’s tucked into the corner of the old sectional. “Let me get this straight. You’ve agreed to go out with Parrish _finally_ and just happened to do so while Jackson was standing right _there_?”

“It was a spur of the moment thing!”

“Nonono, _no_ it was not, Lydia Martin! Jordan has been trying to get you to go out with him since senior year and you _know_ Jackson only came back because he wanted to start over.” Stiles never in a million years thought that he’d ever be defending Jackson Whittemore but since the guy came back from London, he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t changed. And for some reason he’d chosen Stiles as a confidant/drinking buddy. (He figured it was because he knew how to get a werewolf drunk and he knew what it was like to be in love with Lydia Martin and her pretend you don’t exist. Mutual manpain there.)

“Don’t remind me,” the woman in question replies before taking a bite of her rice so she doesn’t have to explain her actions.

And because Stiles is an honest to God Disney princess and prone to bursting out into song at random moments, he sets his fork down and unfolds himself from the floor. Lydia’s eyes widen in horror while Allison and Erica’s sparkle because they all know what’s about to happen. Stiles downs the last of his beer to clear his throat, sets the empty bottle down as he rounds the table with a hand held out to the redhead. Although she shakes her head and shrinks back into the cushions, Stiles grasps her hand and tugs her to her feet. Pulling her into the middle of the floor, he arranges them into a classic dance hold and begins to sing as he leads them into a sway.

“ _Sometimes it’s hard to be a woman, givin’ all your love to just one man. You’ll have bad times and he’ll have good times doing things that you don’t understand. But if you love him, you’ll forgive him even though he’s hard to understand. And if you love him be proud of him ‘cause after all he’s just a man…”_

By the time he reaches his hysterically bad country twang version’s chorus of Tammy Wynette’s ‘Stand by Your Man’ Allison and Erica have joined in are dancing next to him and Lydia. And Lydia is trying so hard not to laugh that her eyes are watering. Stiles grins at her before pulling her into an embrace and with a snap of his fingers he keeps up the country theme as honky-tonk music fills the air. He winks at Allison and Erica over Lydia’s head and sweeps her off her feet making her yelp and laugh in the same breath.

They dance through an entire playlist and two more batches of margaritas. It’s loud and hilarious and exactly what Stiles finds he needed. Allison does a mean Two-Step while Erica has no ‘country’ moves whatsoever. He tells her as much and ends up in a headlock. (She makes Allison teach her the Two-Step and it leaves him in tears it’s so funny.) By the time Christian Kane explains the ‘The House Rules’ to them, him, Lydia, and Allison are well on their way to drunk until Erica cuts them off, citing that they all have work in the morning. So she turns the music off and forces them to clean up their mess from supper. Stiles weaves happily to the kitchen to gather the ice cream and spoons while they clean up.

Ten minutes later once the door is locked and the wards are back up (minus the mountain ash one) the girls are getting cozy in his California King with the sweet treat and waiting on him while he takes a piss and changes into his own pajamas. Only he’s tipsy and completely comfortable and forgets that they don’t know about his ink and strolls pretty as you please back into the bedroom with nothing on but his Spiderman vintage comic pajama bottoms, and his new necklace. He doesn’t notice anything wrong as he goes to one of the bookshelves and searches for his season one Sleepy Hollow DVD set. With an ‘ah ha!’ he slides it out of its designated spot and pivots on his heels, teetering just a bit as he picks up on the girls’ expressions.

Erica’s eyes are golden and glowing, Allison’s mouth is hanging open with a spoonful of chocolate ice cream frozen mid-way to it, and Lydia is staring at him with her calculating gaze that always makes him feel like a bug pinned to a board in a science project. Stiles gulps and chuckles nervously. His fight or flight instinct is strong. And he’s suddenly terribly sober.

“What. The. Hell.” Lydia is the first one to speak and all Stiles can do is shrug. He can feel heat coloring his face and no doubt his entire chest. Damn pale skin.

“Stiles…” Allison slowly places her spoon back in her bowl.

“Explain.” Erica’s tone leaves no room for disobedience.

So with an inhale he turns giving them his back and explains the snake and the runes. And did he fail to mention that he has more on his chest and ribcage? Whoopsie. Facing them again he points to the dark ink that rests over his heart. A triskele sits snugly inside of the same bands that Scott bears around his arm combining both Derek and Scott’s tattoos. When things had coalesced in an act of Scott giving up his own Alpha status to save Derek’s life their senior year of high school, Stiles had gotten the idea (albeit slightly cheesy and uncreative) and it’d been the second tattoo he’d gotten a few years later.

Next he sheepishly points at his right pec where a Celtic Tree of Life sits with roots that suspiciously resemble Lydia’s drawing of the Nemeton crawling down his skin. Woven into the roots are letters, one for the first letter of each of his pack members’ names, along with his dad’s, Allison’s dad, Scott’s mom, and C for Cora. (She’s Derek’s sister even if she doesn’t call him Alpha. And Stiles loves her like family anyway.) And even Danny has a letter in his roots. Others might find it corny but Stiles takes pride in it, knowing that they’re always close to him even when he’s miles away. Call him what you will.

The girls stare at him, motionless until Allison crawls off the bed and walks to him. Her fingertips are cold on his skin as she traces each pattern. He stands still letting her, closing his eyes when she turns him just a little to the left and the light hits his right side making her gasp. He opens one eye to peek at her and meets her surprised gaze. Shrugging yet again, he lifts his arm so Lydia and Erica can see his last tattoo. The (New) Argent Code is written out in French straight from a note that Allison had sent him in class their first year in college and underlined by a single arrow.

“Spur of the moment, ‘I’m-alive-and-just-got-paid-and-laid’ thing?” he offers her causing a small smile to decorate her pretty features.

“You’re just full of surprises, Stilinski.”

“We will talk about that one,” Lydia points at his heart, “later. And do not think that I don’t remember the meaning behind the other. It’s burned into my brain.”

Stiles nods at them and shoos Allison back to them while he puts the DVD in and starts it. Turning the light off he climbs into bed next to Lydia, and Erica promptly climbs over everyone to his left side to sandwich him between her and Lydia. Snorting at her antics he gets comfortable and makes grabby hands for the ice cream.

 

*

 

Nearly three hours later finds Allison and Erica sound asleep while he and Lydia fight to stay awake till the end of the third episode. Her hand has found its way to his chest where they’ve laid down, her head nestled on his shoulder while her fingertips retrace Allison’s earlier path. He would be highly turned on at the fact that he’s in bed with three gorgeous women and one of them is Lydia Martin, but after so many years of pack life, he’s practically immune to it. Not to mention that the Sandman guy in the episode is sort of freaking him out.

It isn’t until the end of the episode that he notices her movements have stilled and she’s out cold. With a yawn he feels around for the remote and only gets a handful of warm, clingy werewolf as Erica curls into his left side in her sleep, nuzzling against his arm. Huffing out a quiet laugh he turns everything off with a mere thought since the girls are asleep and can’t question it. Settling back into the covers and limbs, he stares at the ceiling allowing himself to wonder what the hell that...that _vision_ had been earlier.

The Nemeton had caused him to have nightmares for years and the occasional ‘episode’ of paranoia, sure, but that, whatever it was had been more of a _memory_ instead of just a freak thing. He couldn’t put his finger on it but whatever it was had struck something deep inside of his bones. Consider his interest piqued. With another yawn he pushes his thoughts away by snuggling down into his pillow and letting the even breaths of his girls quiet his mind. He’s asleep in the second between one tick and the next.

 

* * *

 

_It feels like the walls are quickly closing in and there’s no stopping it. The door shuts quietly and it’s the sound of the locks clicking into place that makes it final. They won’t be leaving here. They’ve fought and failed._

_“Never should have…”_

_“Shhh, don’t try to talk, it’s okay. They’ll come… Derek and Scott will find us.”_

_“Tell him—sorry?”_

_“Please don’t talk like that. We’re gonna be okay. Baby? Shit, Erica, come on, stay awake. Don’t leave me, please, don’t leave me.”_

_Her lashes flutter open and she doesn’t even know when she closed them. Boyd’s face is terrified and his eyes are glowing, wetly. She realizes he’s crying. She wants to get up and help him fight if they come back,_ has _to. But it’s useless, she can feel the cold floor of the vault leeching the heat from her frame. And her stomach and chest feel funny, numb and oddly empty. Her limbs are heavy in her mate’s arms._

_“Lo—ove you,” she croaks out to him. There isn’t enough breath in her lungs and blackness pricks at her vision. Her senses are dulling and her lids are being weighed down but she manages to whisper one last thing to the girl that’s huddled in the corner, an innocent victim in all of this. “Take… care of… them.” She holds Boyd’s gaze as long as she can, his golden hues a weird pinpoint of light in the darkness enveloping her. His growl of agony and Cora’s sob leads her into oblivion._

*

 

Erica awakes with a start, her vision cloudy but sharp with preternatural focus. Her claws are embedded in Stiles’ sheets where she’s curled tightly in on herself. Taking a moment to observe her surroundings, the night before comes back to her in a rush as Stiles pads back into the bedroom with a towel around his waist and two mugs of coffee. He pauses when his gaze falls on her.

“You alright?”

She nods, not entirely sure she can speak just yet. Stiles frowns at her lack of response and walks around the foot of the bed, placing the steaming cups on the nightstand. Maneuvering pillows he wedges himself between her and the headboard, carefully lifting her head onto his thighs. The need to be close is too strong and her hands unclench finger by finger from the pierced material and she scoots sideways to wrap her arms around his waist.

“Nightmare or just general discombobulation waking up in my bed?”

“We… _I_ didn’t make it out of the vault this time,” she whispers.

“Well, you know that’s bullhockey,” Stiles reassures her, his fingers trailing softly through her messy hair. She nods again and takes a deep breath. “Alli and Lyds made breakfast if you want some.”

“You coming over today?”

“I can if you want me to. Are you off today?”

“Yeah, Lily made me take a personal day when I wouldn’t shut up about Boyd.”

Stiles laughs at that and leans down to press a kiss to her temple. Erica smiles at him as she untangles her arms and sits up reaching over him for her coffee. Taking a sip she lets the warmth chase away the last of her nightmare. She shamelessly watches Stiles as he moves to his dresser and drops his towel before pulling on TARDIS blue boxer-briefs with a tiny TARDIS pattern on them. She smirks at him over the rim of her mug as he squawks at her for eyeing his goods. Shrugging nonchalantly, she climbs gracefully off the bed, smacking his ass on her way out the door.

The smell of food has her following her nose downstairs to the kitchen where she finds her other two human-ish pack mates. Lydia is buttering toast and Allison looks like she’s the only one with any kind of hangover. Erica plops down into a chair next to the hunter and maneuvers their chairs so Allison’s feet prop up on her lap. Allison’s first groan of appreciation makes Erica grin at Lydia’s eye roll. She can be nice, when she wants to be. And who wouldn’t want a free foot massage.

While she rubs Allison’s feet, she listens to them plan their days, Stiles joining them fully dressed and stealing toast five minutes later. It calms her, the way their voices are familiar, their mingled scents meaning _home._ Derek and Scott _had_ found them and saved them. They were all alive and she was beyond grateful. Derek had forgiven their stupidity and welcomed them back with open arms. That didn’t mean that she didn’t have nightmares about it, though. Even after all this time and that ‘ _what if_ ’ still haunted. She sometimes saw it in her Alpha’s eyes when he didn’t think they were looking. But she had learned to be glad for the present and try to forget the past, and she had these people to help her. She glances up at Lydia when she refills her cup and sets down a plate of food in front of her. The woman is too smart for her own good and smiles knowingly at her, her hand brushes comfortingly along her shoulder.

Digging into her breakfast Erica breathes easy and smiles often. Stiles and Lydia bicker over something while Allison eats with one hand and texts with the other like her and Scott are still in high school. She knows the other half of her pack are sitting at a ridiculous round table and doing the same thing, and it’s kinda perfect. It may be unconventional, and bloody at times, but this is her family and she wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might have seemed like a filler chapter, because it was! Trust me, I'm always slow in the first few but it all snowballs into a great big heap of greatness. (I hope.) Thank ya'll for the kudos and I hope you'll hang on for the ride.


	3. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dig a little deeper and find the heart of the matter. Just don't inhale the dust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cautionary tale: Here there be some blood and some tears within, and what might appear as a mild panic attack but really isn't. Venture in at yer own risk. Savvy?

 

 

 

“I think I like Maleficent better,” Stiles pops another handful of popcorn into his mouth, glancing to his left at Erica’s narrowed eyes. “What? Angelina nailed that part! I mean this is a classic, yeah, but I like all the battle shit in the new version.”

“Read your book and leave me to my Disney dreams, Stiles.”

Failing to peg her in the forehead with a kernel when Isaac snatches it out of the air, Stiles does indeed go back to his book. He’s stretched out on one of Derek’s couches with her, Isaac, Boyd, and Scott who currently has his head pillowed on Stiles’ lap and is snoring. Poor Scotty, Allison is pulling a late shift with his dad and his buddy just couldn’t keep his eyes open. Since he’d decided to follow in his mom’s footsteps and help people (like he isn’t already practically a saint) his hours had been even crazier than when he’d first turned. Stiles is proud of his best friend.

Speaking of friends, Lydia is out on her date with Parrish and Stiles just can’t wait for the fallout of that. He guesstimates that it’ll take about twenty-four hours for Jackson to hear about it and find his way to Stiles’ doorstep. Sometimes he wishes he hadn’t found that formula for mixing wolfsbane and alcohol. But, he had to admit that hanging out with the werewolf wasn’t all that bad. And surprisingly Jackson was quite the snuggly inebriated wolf. (Blackmail, baby, Stiles has tons on his pack.)

Directing his attention back to his book, he tunes out the sound of Sleeping Beauty and cards a hand through Scott’s hair while he delves back into the world of Atlantean and Greek gods and their wars. (He’s such a sucker for Sherrilyn Kenyon’s Dark-Hunter novels and this is about the fourth or fifth time he’s read Acheron.) He’s so engrossed in the story that when Derek sits down next to him some minutes later he doesn’t even notice. Ash and Artemis are in the middle of a heated argument and Stiles is waiting for the man to rip her throat out, goddess or not, when he’s jarred from the pages.

“She sounds like a bitch,” Derek’s comment is quiet and close to Stiles’ ear making him jolt in surprise.

Stiles pats Scott’s head reassuringly when he protests the movement and slumps back against the cushions, meeting Derek’s amused gaze. He hadn’t heard him come in or felt him sit down, let alone known he was reading over his shoulder. “Who, Artie?” At Derek’s nod Stiles smirks. “Oh, she is. You can read it when I’m finished, if you want?”

“Sure. But why are you reading instead of watching the movie?”

Shrugging, Stiles cants his head in Erica’s direction and arches a brow. Derek’s gaze searches his for a second and must read Stiles’ message loud and clear because he nods minutely and settles back more comfortably, pressing their shoulders together. They’ll talk about it later when the betas have gone to bed. Being the pack’s Emissary meant more than just protecting them, policing them, and being a mouthpiece, as Stiles had learned. Over the years Derek had begun to trust him in increments, opening up more and asking for his advice about small things. Then those small things had branched out into Derek actively seeking his help when it came down to the eleventh hour. Stiles wasn’t only proud of Scott.

Sticking his bookmark in his place he stretches over Scott to drop his book onto the coffee table and leans back into his spot next to Derek. For the next hour and a half he watches the movie acutely aware of his Alpha beside him. The heat that the werewolf radiates seeps into his frame as Derek relaxes and leans just a bit more against him. He finds his eyes growing heavy just as the fairies are breaking Prince Phillip out of the dungeon. His fingers still, caught in Scott’s strands and he blinks, forgets to open his lids back.

 

*

 

Stiles wakes up the next morning in his bed at the Hale House. He has no memory of ever walking up the stairs, or anything for that matter. Groaning, he sits up and stretches feeling the most rested he’s been since he got back home. Noting that he’s still dressed he sighs and crawls out of bed, crossing to the dresser to find fresh clothes. So that’s where he left that shirt…

After a shower and a shock at finding out that it’s after eleven Stiles makes his way downstairs. To an empty house. That’s awesome. So much for finding out how Lydia’s date went. He finds his book suspiciously missing, too. Trudging into the kitchen he drinks a glass of orange juice leaving the glass out in spite, before he heads out. He has a life, too he thinks but a damn note would have been nice. Those fuckers. They knew he hated waking up to an empty house. He thrived on noise, movement, _distraction_ and it freaked him out when a house where ten people treated it like Grand Central Station suddenly went silent.

Twenty minutes later Stiles opens the door to the loft with a sigh. Today was Friday and that meant work for him. Settling in at his dark cherry second-hand roll top desk that’s sat smack-dab in the center of the windows, (he’d moved Derek’s table-catch-all into the corner where his bed used to be) he plugs his phone in and turns on some music. Today he’s going with moody classical and everyone would laugh if they knew, so, yay for magical soundproofing! He makes a trip upstairs for a few boxes of books and his leather bag then boots up his laptop. Figuring he better eat something before he gets too deep in his groove and forgets (again) Stiles slaps a sandwich together. Once he’s choked it down he grabs a beer and gets to work.

He’s on a call to a Russian client (yes, he knows more than one language these days, just don’t ask how he learned) when there’s a knock at his door. With a thought the music quiets to mere background noise as he absently gets up and goes to answer it. He’s attempting to assure Vladimir that he can most definitely acquire the text he’s inquiring about as he slides the door open to find Jackson standing there with a quizzical expression, a six pack, and two boxes of heavenly smelling pizza. Wondering how long he’s been working, Stiles just stares at the man until Jackson flashes his brilliant blue hues at him meaningfully. Rolling his eyes Stiles waves his hand to break his mountain ash ward and motions for the werewolf to come in.

Jackson makes himself at home on the couch while Stiles finishes his call, muttering in Russian about hardheaded, untrusting people as he turns his laptop off and tidies his workspace just a titch. Turning back around he finds the pizza boxes open and makes a giddy sound. At least he doesn’t have to worry about dinner tonight.

“Was that Russian or some other weird language you pulled out of your ass?” Jackson asks around a mouthful of pepperoni.

“I’ll pull something out of your ass… an anal dwelling butt monkey!” Stiles replies flopping onto the couch and snatching a piece of greasy perfection out of the box.

“You watch too much TV.”

“Wait, you’ve actually seen Bruce Almighty?”

“You _made_ me watch it, idiot.”

“At least it wasn’t The Notebook.” Stiles winces when Jackson’s shoulders droop a little. Taking a massive bite to avoid saying anymore hurty things he watches his friend. Jackson looks tired, not the ‘not-enough-sleep’ kind of tired, no, he looks like Stiles feels sometimes. It’s a bone deep tired that occasionally made him flirt with the idea of falling into it so completely that he’d be numb to everything. It didn’t matter that everyone was alive and things were good, it was the ‘what if’s and the anticipation of the next thing. Would the next monster sent their way be the one to take them all down? What if he couldn’t save them? What if they couldn’t save _him_? A hand landing heavily on his thigh draws him back and he swallows his bite, blinking his vision back into focus. Jackson doesn’t say a word, doesn’t need to.

They finish their meal with random small talk and when the last slice is gone, without being prompted, Stiles goes into the kitchen and rummages through his ‘No Werewolves Allowed’ cabinet (it’s literally warded so they can’t get into it) and gets out his vile of ‘Operation Drunken Wolf’ (there’s a slight chance he was drunk himself when he named it). Mixing a few drops into a glass of water he takes it back to Jackson who makes a face at it, but he knows if he doesn’t down the nasty crap first then no buzz for him, so he swallows it whole. Stiles blatantly laughs at the hilarious face he makes then offers him a beer to chase it with, which Jackson takes gratefully.

It only takes about an hour for Jackson to loosen up and for Stiles to be well on his way to pleasantly buzzed as well. They’ve finished all the beer and have moved on to Stiles stash of whiskey. Jackson was lucky because he was the only one that was ever allowed to drink Stiles’ liquor.

“She went out with that cop. A fucking _cop_ , Stilinski. You know how I feel about them.”

“I do and I think you’re full of shit. You’re a lawyer, Jack-O and that’s _worse_ than a cop.” Stiles nods in agreement with himself and Jackson just slumps further down on the couch, his head landing on Stiles’ shoulder.

“Not worse, just… I thought she’d be proud, you know? I got my shit together and worked my ass off to make something out of the shitstorm that was my life. I had to _work_ to get where I am and she doesn’t even care. What does that shitty cop have that I don’t? I’m different now. You said so.” Jackson takes another pull straight from the whiskey bottle then presses it into Stiles’ waiting hands.

“I did say that. I meant it, too. And I dunno what Parrish has. He’s a great guy, got a killer smile, helps people…” Stiles trails off when Jackson flails a hand out in front of them in obvious frustration.

“I’m all of those things!” he proclaims and snatches the bottle out of Stiles’ grasp making him huff and wipe at his face when the drink he’d been taking spills down his chin.

“Dude, I don’t understand her any more than you do! You know how I used to feel about her. I was in your shoes, kinda…” Stiles sighs and ticks his gaze to the hole in the wall that Derek had never bothered to fix. “Look, sometimes things just don’t work out. There isn’t necessarily any rhyme or reason behind it. You had your run in high school, you both grew up and away from each other. Maybe it’s time that you let it go like I did. Take her down off the pedestal and put her on the bookshelf. Admire her like a pretty picture, a memory that you’ll always love but you can’t go back to.”

Jackson takes another swig and hands the bottle back to Stiles quietly, his head still resting on his shoulder. Stiles drinks down a gulp of amber liquid letting the burn of alcohol warm his insides. He doesn’t expect Jackson’s next words.

“Have you told Derek yet?”

Stiles goes very still, his grip around the neck of the bottle tightening till his knuckles are white. He ponders the consequences of murdering a pack member, decides they’re too steep and swallows back his urge. Draining the last of the whiskey Stiles shrugs Jackson gently off his shoulder and stands. He wavers for a second before finding his balance and proceeds to clean up their dinner mess. He studiously ignores Jackson’s question and eyes.

“Come on, Stilinski, it’s just an innocent question.”

“No more alcohol for you.”

“Whatever. So, you can tell me to let Lydia go but I can’t give you any advice on your, how did you phrase it? Oh right, your ‘seriously bad-touch crush’ on our Alpha? I hardly think that’s fair.”

Shooting the werewolf a glare of epic proportions Stiles gathers the trash and promptly leaves the room. He curses the night he’d gotten drunk and spilled his guts to the douchebag of all people. Oh, he remembers exactly what he’d said, unfortunately. A neighboring pack had been passing through on their way to some thing in San Francisco a couple months ago, and their Alpha was some Amazonian goddess looking chick. She’d immediately started flirting with Derek and would _not_ stop touching him and not-so-subtly mentioning how great an Alpha pair would be. They were only there for three days but she made a point to be at Hale House every single one of them. The night they’d left Stiles had had enough and gone out with Jackson and Danny just to get away before he snapped someone’s head off out of sheer annoyance.

That night he’d gotten absolutely wasted and danced till he was dripping with sweat. He’d gone home with Jackson where he’d been forced into a shower to clean and sober him up, then he’d been manhandled into bed. That’s where he’d confessed everything. All it took was one little question from Jackson and Stiles had opened his mouth and found words skipping off his tongue into the darkness of the bedroom where he was helpless to corral them back in. He takes satisfaction in tearing the pizza boxes up to fit in the garbage bag and feigns serenity when the werewolf walks into the kitchen.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he warns as he turns to the sink to wash his hands. “In fact, I just want to go to bed, because there is _nothing_ to talk about now.”

“I’m just trying to help you… like you help me.” Jackson’s voice is quiet and sincere and Stiles squeezes his eyes shut letting his head drop forward and shoulders slouch in. Damn werewolves. Damn them and their knowledge of his soft spots. Blowing out a breath he turns the water off and dries his hands before turning around.

“No, I haven’t said anything to him. I’ve been working more and pretending it doesn’t exist. Maybe, just _maybe_ if I wish hard enough it will just go away. I’ll wake up one morning and _poof_ I won’t want to jump our Alpha.” Pushing away from the counter he tosses the hand towel down and strides past Jackson. “So there, now you know. I’m still a coward. Okay? Alrighty then. You can stay if you want and we’ll go running in the morning, but regardless I’m going to bed.” Grabbing his phone off the desk he stops at the foot of the stairs and raises a brow at Jackson where he stands in the middle of the room.

“You still have my shorts?”

“If Scott or Isaac didn’t steal them then they should be in the drawer.”

With that Stiles climbs the stairs and goes straight to the bathroom. Changing into clean pajamas out of the laundry basket he never bothered putting away, he takes a minute to breathe. He knows Jackson means well but Stiles hasn’t come to terms yet with the fact that he’s sorta in love with Derek. How can you admit it to someone else when you aren’t quite sure what it means yourself? He glances in the mirror over the sink while he brushes his teeth and snorts at himself. His happy buzz is gone now, that’s for sure.

“You better not be whacking it, Stilinski!”

Stiles rolls his eyes and opens the door. “It’s my bathroom, I will if I want.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“And you’re just mad you aren’t my type,” Stiles smirks at the man and brushes past him with Jackson’s old motto of “I’m _everyone’s_ type!” following him into the bedroom. Climbing onto his bed and sliding beneath the cover he sends Scott his usual ‘Have a good shift, and call if you need me.’ text before making sure his ringer is on and setting his cell onto his nightstand. A minute later Jackson pads into the room in his old lacrosse shorts and nothing else making Stiles eye him a little hotly, and he laughs smugly as he gets in on the other side. “Oh, bite me,” Stiles mutters sinking down into the mattress and turning over giving the conceited wolf his back.

His phone beeps once with Scott’s reply and he opens it rolling his eyes to himself at the horrid; ‘its my 2nd nite off but i luv u newayz !!’. Returning his phone to the table he grunts when a strong arm bands around his torso dragging him back against a warm chest. He probably would have laughed in your face if you’d told him in high school that one day he’d be cuddled up to Jackson in his bed, actually he’d probably have shot you. But the truth of the matter is that it’s comforting, no matter which member of the pack it is. They draw strength from each other and being the tactile creatures they are, well, they had all learned to work with it. He definitely isn’t complaining.

Stiles is almost out when Jackson’s breath ghosts across his neck with a whisper.

“You should tell Derek. He deserves to know.” His eyes open at the words and he swallows thickly. Jackson pats his chest with the hand that’s draped over him and continues. “And if he tells you to fuck off… you’ve got me and the rest of them. We won’t let him be a dick.” Stiles laughs low then exhales a long breath. He knows he’s right, but that doesn’t make it any less terrifying.

“Thanks,” Stiles whispers and Jackson hums in response before he drops off, arm going slack. Too tired to contemplate his predicament he snuggles back against the warm werewolf and closes his eyes. He’ll have plenty of time to worry tomorrow. As Stiles drifts to sleep he misses the way his pendant pulses over his heart with a minute incandescent light.

 

* * *

 

_Her feet are quiet as she rushes down the stone corridor, the flame from the lit torches casting shadows upon her path. She should have known better than to linger at the table with the handsome soldier and his peculiar friend, but she was drawn to those bright and beautiful brown eyes of his. They reminded her of her father’s hunting pup who could guilt her into much trouble when she was a wee lass. Her weakness for those with goodness and loyalty shining from their gazes knew no bounds as it would seem. She could only hope that her tardiness was found unimportant by her future queen._

_Rapping her knuckles thrice against the heavy wooden door to announce her presence, she awaits permission before entering. Ignoring the way the other two girls offer her glares she takes her place by the princess’s side. Sparing her a glance, the petite girl waves her hand dismissing everyone else. Allison sighs in relief as she gives a small curtsy to her closest friend and tamps down the urge to be childish and smirk at the annoyed ladies._

_“You’re late, Alli.”_

_“I apologize, Your Royal Highness.”_

_Lydia_ _spins on her stool and pins the brunette with a faux menacing glare. “Drop the title, dearest. Now, come plait this mess. Those hens had no idea what they were about.”_

_Allison laughs quietly and does as she’s told. Lydia’s eyes catch hers in the mirror and she arches a brow at her. “Oh, alright. I was down in the kitchens with your father’s newest hire.”_

_“The slight one or the reed-thin one with the hair of a rooster?”_

_Snickering at her definition of the Polish soldier, Allison grins. “The former. He’s a McCall and very nice. His friend has a sharp wit about him, you’d enjoy him me thinks.”_

_“Pfft, nay. I don’t need one tryin’ to outsmart me. It’s why I’ve agreed to the marriage Da arranged, Laird Whittemore is dumber than a satchel of stones.”_

_“Now, now,” Allison rebukes her friend as her fingers work strawberry strands into familiar patterns. “You’ve only spoken to him twice, don’t be naïve. He looks strong, if a wee bit harsh by dawn’s light.”_

_“Must you always be my guiding star?”_

_“Aye, so it would seem.” They settle into a comfortable stillness then, Lydia falling into one of her favored volumes and Allison humming a quiet tune as she works. It’s a bond that she’d never part from despite her station, much to her parents’ disappointment. Having a grandfather on the Council and a well earned and known name was no excuse to become a spinster, as her mother had drilled into her head. But Allison refused any hunters they paraded under her nose. Her place was by Lydia’s side and should she marry, it would be for a great passion, not a land trade._

_With a swift clang Lydia’s chamber door flies open making the girls shriek and rise to their feet, the interruption exceedingly unwelcome. A man strides into the room and Allison immediately places herself between the barbarian and Lydia. When his eyes alight upon them, she watches with disbelief and terror as they shine a demonic crimson. When he smiles his teeth are those of a dog’s, vicious and sharp._

_“Leave us!” Allison commands only to have him laugh darkly and take another step closer. “Do not take another step or I will be forced to defend her Highness.” She ignores Lydia’s clutching hands at her back and whispered pleas for her silence._

_“Oi, lass you’re a spirited one, you are. I have a mind to keep you.” He takes another step._

_Allison’s veins rush with hatred and she retreats further, let him think her a wee scared lass, she cares not. She needs the sword that hangs over Lydia’s head. “Who are you?”_

_“Don’t you worry, love we’ll have time for trivial things later.”_

_Her skin crawls with his vile suggestive declaration. Taming her heartbeat and breath just like her mother taught her Allison reaches above their heads and unsheathes one of the swords that rest there meant for decoration. Brandishing it in front of her, she sets her jaw. “You will perish nameless, then. May God have mercy on your scoundrel’s soul.”_

_He looks to the heavens and laughs loudly. Allison takes the moment to glance back at her friend. She meets terrified ale colored eyes and ticks her gaze to the wall on the other side of her bed. Lydia nods hastily in recognition. If Allison can distract him long enough surely Lydia can use the secret passage and escape. Allison will welcome her fate as long as her friend can flee freely._

_“You aspire to fell me, lass? Then I shall give you a just turn.”_

_She steps forward giving Lydia a chance to move, her sword posed and ready. Then he takes a lunge at her. The steel slices a pretty path along his left arm. They go on, locked in a cat and mouse game until it all tilts south._

_Lydia_ _having just climbed onto her bed slips in her skirts amongst the sheets attracting the man’s attention. Allison gets in two swipes with the sword before he swats her aside like a fly. The sword falls from her fingers on her impact with the wall and she watches it unfold in slow motion. Lydia fights fiercely but she is no match against the savage devil. His teeth and claws spill her blood to stain the stark white of her sheets. Allison forces herself to rise despite the growing chasm inside her self._

_The beast turns from his massacre with a bloody leer and Allison’s gut rolls at the sight of Lydia’s blood dripping from his demonic features. Just as she’s whispering her last prayer as his foot moves to take a step there’s the sound of something whistling through the air. Her gaze snaps to the chamber door to find the Polish soldier there, a deadly glint to his eye as he lowers his bow. He watches as the beast folds to the floor, chest still and visage void. It’s with sympathy that he turns to her and holds out a hand._

_Standing on shaking legs, Allison casts a final glance at her beloved princess and with a sob caught in her throat she goes with him. He leads her silently through the castle and the sun is blinding when they reach the courtyard. There she’s wrenched from his protective embrace by the strong hands of her mother._

_“Where have you been?! I beseech you, tell me you saw nothing.” Her mother’s stern command addles her wits further and she stares up at the woman in confusion._

_“I saw a devil rip out the very throat of my best friend.”_

_“The princess is lost? Oi, Allison, this does not bode well for us. Come, we must speak to your granda.”_

_Allison loses her focus and it seems only mere seconds that she’s being ushered into her granda’s court. She’s befuddled as to why the others are gathered, the entire parish clustered around and twittering on like birds. She’s pushed to the forefront to face Gerard and his council._

_“Allison Argent, in the recent days” (days? It had only just happened.) “following the attack on the Martin Castle it has been rumored that you were a traitor for the barbarians. Prior to these beliefs it has also been called to my attention that you consorted with demons to further aid the revolt.”_

_The shock hits her so strongly that her stance wavers. Her mother’s iron grip around her upper arm bruises. Her da’s distance stings greater._

_“Your rebellious nature has proven to lead you down the wrong path, my dear. It weighs heavily upon these weathered shoulders that you would choose a wicked heading in your young journey rather than fall in line with what has been taught to you. And while your plight wearies my heart, it is my sworn duty to uphold God and this land’s law. Therefore, you are labeled Witch and shall burn upon a pyre at noon.”_

_The words resound through her louder than the church bell that chimes a mournful tone with her granda’s sentence. Only Lydia’s phantom screams are louder in her ears than that of her impending doom. Her mother nods respectfully and yanks her through the gathered crowd and presses her straight into the hands of the stoic looking guard that awaits her outside._

_In a blink she’s bound with iron and being led to the courtyard where her life will be snuffed out, painfully. The guard assists her to her pyre and even offers her a pitying gaze when she begins to cry silently. She’s bound again but by rope soaked in foul smelling fuel this time. The stake she’s tied to cuts into her back as she’d been made to disrobe and left in nothing but her shift. Lydia’s parents stand to the side with triumphant faces while her own look on, one in agony and the other in grim determination. Her friends are scattered among the crowd and she spots the handsome soldier and her Polish savior next to the blacksmith._

_Derek’s face is stormy and she has a moment’s lunacy when his eyes flash to a brilliant red alike the beast but yet entirely separate. Lydia’s emerald amulet rests betwixt her breasts heavy and her only comfort in the midst of her fate. Allison turns her eyes heavenward and vows to see her friend welcome her to the afterlife and nothing more. As her granda declares her crimes once more and the world seems to go still tears stream down her face and neck like a river._

_When the first flames lick at the soles of her feet Allison can no longer hold her composure in check, for she wails like the banshees of old._

*

 

Scott shakes her awake, his eyes shining bright in the dark of their bedroom and Allison gasps trying to catch her breath. Kicking at the constricting sheets that squeeze her legs she scoots up onto her knees in the middle of the bed just as Derek throws their door open with a bang as it ricochets off the wall. He’s half-shifted and Allison takes one look at his crimson gaze and bursts into tears. Scott glares at him over her head as he tries to wrap his arms around her but she pushes him off. Her feet still sting and she can’t, she just…

“Lydia.” It’s all she can get out before another sob wracks her frame. Without a question Derek shifts back to rumpled human and moves to the bed where he scoops her up much to Scott’s annoyance. Allison bands her arms around his neck and buries her face in the crook of his shoulder attempting to hide her episode from the three betas that she knows are standing in the hallway. Scott seems to get with the program and places a loving kiss to her shoulder before Derek carries her from the room. She feels comforting hands brush over her in passing and hears Scott telling them it was just a nightmare, she’s fine.

It isn’t until they’re on the stairs that lead up to Lydia’s room that Derek rubs his jaw atop her head and whispers soothingly to her. It makes her cry that much harder knowing that after everything they have gone through and he still has it in his heart to call her a part of his pack, his _family._ Reaching Lydia’s door Derek shoulders it open and maneuvers around the furniture to the bed under the window. When he places her on the bed the banshee wakes up with a confused “What?” to which he just tucks Allison in. Lydia glances at her alarm clock and frowns before meeting his gaze. Allison doesn’t speak, can’t stop crying, and simply curls into her best friend’s side.

“Nightmare,” Derek says in a hushed tone, his fingertips brushing sweat damp hair off of Allison’s cheek. “She wanted you.” He says it like a parent that feels helpless when their child’s sick and cries for their other parent.

“Oh…” Lydia replies already wrapping her arms around Allison and holding her tightly. Derek bends down pressing a kiss to the archer’s cheek and then to the redhead’s. With one last gentle caress of a palm over her hair Derek turns on his heels and leaves them alone. Allison breathes easier at the feel of Lydia’s cool sheets on her feet and her heart beating loudly in her ear. She doesn’t ask for an explanation nor does Allison offer one. She’s just glad that the people she was blessed to find know how to hold her together when she feels like she’ll fly apart at the seams. They are the foundation that she’s built her life on, her anchor in the tossing and chaotic waves that throw everything at them.

She and Erica had watched Lilo and Stitch a week ago and they’d both teared up at the damn movie, but Allison finds that the words have stuck with her and struck a chord within her. _‘Ohana means family. Family means nobody gets left behind, or forgotten.’_ Her pack is the embodiment of that for her and she wouldn’t hesitate to die for them and she knows they’d do the same for her. Somehow that thought comforts her just as much as Lydia’s steady heartbeat.

She falls back asleep, but into a dreamless rest this time, feeling safe and loved, and _home_.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy, was that fun to write. My Scottish is a tad horrible so... ta da! And believe it or not but I actually do research before I write and there were in fact witch trials in Scotland starting roughly back in the late 1500s but more prominently over a 200 year span during the 16th and 17th centuries.
> 
> And now that your history lesson is over I'm off for a nap. Where I'll probably dream about damn witches. Argh. I hope you're still hanging in there, you beautiful monsters you. Until next week! <3


	4. I took my love and I took it down.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we get a look from Lydia's perspective of things.

 

 

Up with the sun, Jackson drags Stiles out of bed with the promise of coffee from his favorite shop and something with bacon. Stiles being the morning person he is (not) begrudgingly pulls on sweats, a stolen lacrosse hoodie that’s emblazoned with ‘Whittemore - 37’ on the back, and a backwards ball cap. The owner of said garment rolls his eyes and tells him the 90s called and wants their outfit back, to which Stiles flips him off and fails to push him down the spiral staircase. He lets the werewolf drive to the Preserve and half-dozes until a hand whacks his chest startling him awake. Jackson is out of the car and stretching before Stiles can retaliate.

They start out at a jog along the path that’s only known to Jackson’s werewolfy senses, the birds greeting them happily. There isn’t any conversation between them, no remnants of the strained air from the night before. This was how they had worked since Jackson had returned to Beacon Hills; nit-pick at each other until nerves were raw, sleep on whatever the issue was, and then sweat it out. (And no, he doesn’t mean the sexy sweaty way. He loved the asshole but no. Just no.) Jackson knows Stiles’ limits, how much his legs can take before they turn to jelly and so he pushes him.

By the time they reach Hale property they’re both drenched in sweat and breathing heavy. Stiles makes a victory whoop when he spots the back porch and with a burst of speed overtakes the wolf, beating him to the steps. Where he promptly collapses in a sopping heap, hat popping off and leaving his hair horrendously wild.

“Ow, ow, ow….” He pants, smacking a hand over his aching side as his head meets the wooden planks.

“Give it up, Stilinski. I let you win that time.” Jackson smirks at him but it only looks more like a grimace as he braces himself on the railing.

“Bullshit!” Stiles coughs out then loudly proclaims with the last of his breath: “I WISH I HAD SOME WATER!” He closes his eyes taking a deep breath attempting to return his pulse to a more sedate pace. Three, seven, ten beats later he opens his eyes and glances over to the stairs, curious where Jackson’s bitchy comeback was. Before he can ask why the idiot’s grinning like the cat that ate the canary a stream of ice cold water is introduced to his face, leaving him spluttering and flailing up into a sitting position to glare at whoever had the balls to grant him his wish in such an asshole-ish way.

“Feel better?”

Jackson’s immensely pleased laugh at Derek’s question makes Stiles’ fingers itch with the need for revenge. However, the red tint to his Alpha’s gaze is enough to have him stifling his urges. Tugging a sleeve of his hoodie down over his hand he mops at his dripping face and blows out a breath. “Yeah, much better, thanks,” he mutters sarcastically and unfolds to his feet, matching Derek’s posture with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Good,” Derek’s gaze fucking _sparkles_ with mischief in the morning sun and Stiles suddenly remembers that he, he really needs to go do… something. Jackson’s knowing smirk as he climbs the stairs and bumps his shoulder with Stiles’ propels him into movement and he pries his eyes from the depths of Derek’s.

“Well, thanks for the shower, but we’ll just be going now.”

The hand that snaps out and grabs his wrist draws him up short and sends awareness skating up his arm. When he turns back to look at Derek, his brows are knitted into a brood and Stiles sighs. So much for going home and spending time with his hand in the shower.

“Allison had a bad night.”

Stiles’ spine straightens out immediately as his features become completely business: 96% concern and the remaining 4% confusion. “Her mom?” Stiles knew she’d had nightmares on and off, but they’d seemed to taper off when she moved in with Scott and the pack. Derek shakes his head and Stiles notes the way his shoulders slump just enough that no one outside of the pack would know that he’s feeling _things_ at the moment. “She still here?” he asks as he takes a step towards the door, Derek’s grip momentarily forgotten.

“Yes. She called in an hour ago. Stiles, she screamed like someone was burning her alive.” Derek flinches at his own words and Stiles doesn’t hesitate to shake off his grip and sling his arm over the Alpha’s shoulders. It’s a moment of allowed comfort and Stiles gives willingly. Jackson’s presence at his back is an anchor as much as the way Derek exhales slowly and pushes into his hold is.

“Jack-O, mind if we hang out a while?” At the approving grunt behind him Stiles nods, patting a hand at Derek’s shoulder and smiles at him. “We’ve got this. Go to work, take dad coffee? And we’ll all stay here tonight, ‘kay?” Derek nods and Stiles has the stupidest urge to lean in closing the distance between them and just brush his lips across the wolf’s.

But Derek pulls away before he can act on it and goes back in leaving Stiles staring at empty space.

“Ouch… I’m going to get the car. Try not to pout too much,” Jackson whispers close to his ear making his teeth grind.

“Ha, ha. Fuck you very much,” Stiles replies as Jackson claps a hand on his shoulder and shoves him towards the door then disappears down the steps. Stiles inhales deeply before entering the house. He makes a beeline for the fridge and pulls out a bottle of water. Leaning a hip back against the counter he unscrews the cap and drinks like a man dying of thirst. He doesn’t notice the eyes staring a hole through him until he’s almost finished.

The tiniest hint of heat is gone from Derek’s gaze before Stiles can even categorize it.

“Boyd and Erica went to some thing with her parents, Isaac is still asleep, and if you want to cook tonight you’re gonna have to make a trip to the store. We’re running low.”

Stiles nods and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “Gotcha. Where’s Lydia?” He knows Scott will be home till his shift that night so her and Peter were the only ones unaccounted for. But Peter was well, _Peter_ so Stiles wasn’t worried about him. Why does he feel like a parent here? Sometimes he has the weirdest thoughts.

“She’s on the couch with Allison but she has to go get her car before Ben’s closes at noon.”

“Shit, I rode over with Jackson, who’s taking her?”

“I’m not sure…”

Shrugging, Stiles chucks his empty water bottle into the wastebasket, “I’ll steal Alli’s car or Jackson can drop her off.” He smirks smugly to himself imaging the wounded look the werewolf will give him when he gets a taste of his own medicine.

“He will do no such thing.”

Stiles’ head whips around to meet the banshee in question. He grins innocently at her and she glares daggers at him as she walks into the kitchen. And right by him. No hello or anything. He is _not_ feeling the love.

“I have a ride, give me a little credit,” she says while working her magic with the coffee maker. “I’m not calling Jackson like a damsel in distress and dropping any grains of hope into his lap.”

“I appreciate that.”

The room goes silent at Jackson’s response and Stiles feels like he’s about to watch a train wreck. Derek meets his eyes from across the room and quirks a single brow in what Stiles knows to be his ‘I’m-about-to-leave-your-ass’ expression. Sure enough the Alpha eases around Jackson on ninja feet and it’s like he was never in the room. Damn him.

“I… did not know you were here,” Lydia glares even harder at Stiles when she slowly turns around to face them, and he shrinks back against the counter a titch more, smaller target and all.

“Stayed with Stiles last night, but don’t worry I’m just going to check on Allison and go.”

Stiles ‘Uh-Oh’ meter dings because Jackson only calls him by his name when he’s too hurt to think of an insult or too drunk or pissed off to think at all. He vehemently wishes that he could apparate away from the kitchen. If wishes were fishes…

But before Lydia can say whatever it is that she’d been posed to say Peter chooses that moment to stroll into the kitchen, pausing when he sees their standoff. Rolling his eyes he waves a hand airily, “Don’t mind me. Actually, I insist you continue on with the show.” Retrieving a mug from the cabinet behind Lydia (who surprisingly doesn’t shy away from the Hale anymore) he pours himself a cup and takes up station next to Stiles.

Like someone pressed the ‘play’ button Jackson nods at Stiles before turning on his heels and leaving the way he’d came while Lydia huffs with exasperation and pivots around to the coffee maker giving them her back. Stiles lets out a drawn out breath and straightens, hand coming up to card through his messy hair. He notices Peter staring at him.

“What?”

“You reek. And your hair is frightening,” Peter states and takes a sip of his coffee. Lydia snickers.

“It’s called exercise! And now that my ride has no doubt left me stranded, I’m gonna go take a shower.” Peter’s lips curve up into a sly grin causing Stiles’ eyes to narrow and he asks, “What now?!”

“I do believe that the shower is taken. Guess you’ll have to use Derek’s.” With that he turns to Lydia leaving Stiles to stomp off like an angry child. Sure enough Isaac is in the bathroom and he isn’t about to use Erica’s for fear of her yelling at him for using her shampoo again. Scott smiles sadly at him from his spot on the couch and Stiles sighs loudly.

“Why do you people hate me,” he whines as he trudges over to drop a kiss to Allison’s cheek where she’s curled against Scott’s side.

“We love you, but your discomfort makes us giddy,” she smiles softly at him and he wants nothing more than to give her a big hug. But Peter had a point, dammit. He was sweaty and damp (damper thanks to Derek), and could use a shower. Ruffling Scott’s hair he turns to go find Derek before he leaves for work (on a fucking Saturday, seriously.) and nearly runs smack into him.

“Bells, I swear I’m gonna sew bells into your collars so I can hear you coming.” Draping a hand dramatically over his heart he breathes heavily.

“You can use my shower,” is all he says before he skirts around Stiles and slides a tender hand down Allison’s arm and presses a kiss to the same spot where Stiles’ own lips had been not a minute before. Stiles gulps thickly at what that simple gesture of affection does to his insides and begins to back out of the room only to bump into an amused looking Peter.

“Yep, shower, I’m just gonna… go…” and with that he slips out of the room, Peter’s laughter chasing him all the way up the stairs.

 

* * *

 

Lydia would normally feel guilty for hurting Jackson but something in his voice had been resigned. His departing sentence had sounded to her ears like he’d actually meant what he’d said. Don’t get her wrong, she would always love him and with him in the pack they would continue to be a constant presence in each others’ lives. So it isn’t that she hates him or even resents him for leaving her before all hell broke loose. No, it’s simply that growing up and entertaining her new abilities had given her the focus she needed to realize that it never would have worked. They might have fit well together at one time but their puzzle pieces no longer slid perfectly into place. She had been in love with the idea of them as the ultimate power couple, the _perfect_ pair, and she’d been blind.

Over the years she had learned to sharpen and control her curse. (She would never label it a gift.) She’d learnt to pluck at the strings of reality and listen to the voices that cried out from the rifts. She’d also honed her body along with her mind, hours of pushing herself with Allison or Erica, sometimes even Derek had taught her how to defend and protect. Lydia had grown up, plain and simple, grown up and out of childish romantic notions…

Yes, now her notions leant more toward the clandestine and utterly inexcusable.

Hefting her bag onto her shoulder Lydia strides into the living room just as Derek closes the front door behind him, her heels snapping out a staccato beat against the hardwood. She skirts around the side of the couch to perch on the cushion next to Allison and offers her a warm smile. “You’ll call if you need me, okay? I shouldn’t be gone too long.”

“Lyds, stop worrying. I’m fine. Go,” Allison says sternly but her fingers wrapping tightly around Lydia’s belies her command.

Sighing, Lydia presses her forehead to the archer’s temple and squeezes her hand before drawing back and standing. With a nod she smiles at her best friend and the werewolf curled protectively around her. “Fine. I’ll see you after while. Love you,” she says then turns to leave. On her way past the older Hale who had been observing the affectionate display she tugs at the sleeve of his Henley, her voice back to its firm tone, “We haven’t got all day. Let’s go.”

“Yes, Ms. Martin,” is his snarky reply and Lydia rolls her eyes not bothering to stoop to his level with a comeback. She doesn’t wait to see if he follows her because she knows he is. The hair on the back of her neck is standing up due to his mere presence. She had unfortunately learned to live with it.

Once in the car Lydia cracks her window a sliver despite the AC he turns on. The weird indie/folk music that he’s grown to favor plays quietly in the cab and she allows herself to relax a little. To say that she used their ‘connection’ (if you could call it that) to her advantage would be an understatement. But she didn’t feel guilty in the slightest because the once power starved werewolf was prone to doing the same thing. It all evened out in her opinion.

“I cannot believe that you went out with that deputy,” Peter chooses to break the silence with and Lydia sighs.

“I told you I was going to,” she responds sounding bored, her gaze watching nature blur by.

“Yes,” he sounds annoyed and she lets a small smile curve her mouth. “You did but you failed to mention that you were going to let him _touch_ you.”

She does turn her head to look at him then. “I like to be touched.”

A hand with blunt, human nails moves to rest lightly on her thigh, seemingly innocent. His voice however is a low rumble that sends chills up her spine. “I know… and I do not like sharing.”

Lydia’s eyes narrow at the werewolf’s profile. From the outside he appears calm and collected but the clench of his shaven jaw, the slightest flare of his nostrils, and the sudden prick of claws into the tender flesh of her thigh tells her otherwise. You see, when she mentioned ‘using their ‘connection’’ she meant to its _fullest_ capacity. Peter Hale was a proven monster and after countless dates with utterly normal men she had given in to his designs. Now, she isn’t proud of it, but she’s just as territorial as any werewolf is, so she doesn’t get huffy or pissy that he’s being possessive. Not when it’s because the beast that lives in him wants _her_. And Lydia enjoys being wanted.

“Then maybe we should just stop pretending this is a secret and tell the pack,” she says evenly contrary to her racing heart.

Placing her hand atop his she gently plucks his fingers from her thigh and turns his palm up, threading her fingers through his. It’s surprisingly an old argument between them and it’s the only one she never wins. He’s afraid (though he would rather chew off his own tongue than admit it) how the rest of the pack, particularly Derek, would take the news. His reputation is far from shining as it is, but his worry that they’ll think he somehow manipulated _her_ after their past is a concrete thing between them. And Lydia would take her usual path of getting things done herself but their relationship is riddled with enough landmines that she worries one wrong step and it’ll blow up in her face. Hence where she makes him take on meaningless tasks with her and her spending time at his apartment for ‘research’ that she’s positive isn’t fooling anyone.

Peter sighs as his fingers curl around hers, his eyes flicking to her momentarily before focusing back on the road. She knows the discussion is over and her shoulders slump just a titch in defeat. Maybe one day she’ll get it through his thick skull that she doesn’t care what the others think, that she _wants_ to be with him. And yes, she knows how fucked up it is after everything but she can’t deny that the older Hale is her anchor. As the drive winds towards town she reminds herself again that she’s a grown ass woman now. She will survive.

 

*

 

That night Lydia leaves Peter’s in her own car that’s fresh from the mechanic’s. She’s immaculately put together outwardly but inside she’s tired and annoyed by the sadness she feels creeping into her bones. Hidden underneath her clothes are fingerprint bruises and love bites and she wants to hate herself for wishing she could just _stay_. But Allison needs her and so she leaves.

She gets home to find Stiles and Isaac unloading groceries and is nice enough to help. Anything to take her mind off of Peter Hale who had politely declined supper in favor of a bottle of wine and takeout. Maybe she should have just stayed with him after all. Stiles cooks some kind of Mexican chicken dish and it’s business as usual except for the looks Allison keeps shooting her. Lydia musters a warm smile for her and pretends she’s enjoying the meal. It probably wasn’t one of her better decisions to tell her best friend about her affair with the elder werewolf but it was too late now.

After dinner they vote to watch yet another Disney movie before Scott has to leave and Lydia ends up curled into Stiles’ side, sandwiched between him and Derek. She takes great joy when the Alpha gives her a venomous glare. Tonight is Pocahontas and it’s hilarious when Stiles and Scott know more of the songs than her and Allison. Erica would know them all if she were home though seeing as she takes pride in that. What’s really funny is when Lydia catches Derek humming along to ‘Colors of the Wind’, but she doesn’t draw attention to it because she knows it would unearth painful memories for him. Towards the end of the movie she’s taken to absentmindedly toying with the strange pendant that hangs from Stiles’ neck finding it unnaturally warm to the touch, but not unpleasantly so. He raises a brow at her and she hooks a finger in the chain and pulls him down to press a kiss to his jaw. When she lets him go and pushes off the couch she pats Derek’s knee and barely resists the urge to bang their heads together.

She says bye to Scott with a hand carded through his hair then goes up to get ready for bed. Twenty minutes later as she’s plugging her phone up to charge Allison slips into her room and not bothering to ask permission climbs under the covers with her. They make idle conversation once the light is turned off and Lydia knows the archer is dying to ask her about her day, so she breaks first with a drawn out exhale.

“He still doesn’t want us to tell anyone,” she whispers to the ceiling.

“Is he still worried what Derek will say?”

“And the rest of you. You know how fragile his ego is,” Lydia rolls her eyes and rolls onto her left side to face the brunette. “He doesn’t want to tarnish his ‘refined’ reputation, or so I’ve come to guess because he just stares at me like I’m stupid when I bring it up.”

“Maybe you should just grab him up and lay one on him in front of the pack.” Lydia can hear the amusement in her friend’s tone.

“And have him pretend that I’ve lost it? No, thank you,” she groans in frustration and yanks the covers all the way up over their heads like they’re kids instead of grown women. Allison’s laugh eases some of the tension from her shoulders as Lydia snuggles closer to her, her head wedging under the girl’s chin. “Men are stupid,” she proclaims.

“Hasn’t changed since school,” Allison comments as she drapes an arm around the redhead. “I thought they were supposed to grow up when we graduated, but I don’t think it’s ever going to happen if Peter is any indication.”

Lydia snorts in response and closes her eyes. A silence falls around them in their muffled blanket burrito, Allison’s arm going heavy and her breathing deepening shortly after. Lydia, warm and comfortable allows herself to let go of consciousness and falls asleep.

One floor down where Stiles is sprawled face down along his bed, wedged between his collarbone and the mattress his pendant glows.

 

*

 

_Her feet are bare and the dew from the grass dampens her soles and clings to her skin. There’s a heavy fog that clouds her vision and fiery curls lie heavily upon her breast. She looks down and feels a strain of unease thread through her ribcage at the sight of her wardrobe. Her dress is a long and Victorian looking thing that flows with a faint breeze about her legs, and there are stains of red soaked into the pure white material. Splatters form handprints as green grass becomes slippery beneath her feet, red slowly oozing up from the ground to suck at her steps and shade the green a muddy red._

_Lydia_ _’s head snaps up at the sound of a tortured sob a few feet in front of her._

_The mist makes it hard to see so she forces herself to wade through the mess and moves closer to the noise. The mud cakes the skin of her feet and reaches her ankles before she comes to a clearing, the fog clearing just enough for her to make out a man curled in on himself. As she approaches she realizes that she knows the lines of that back and the set of those shoulders._

_“Peter?” her voice sounds small in the stillness._

_His head whips around and his eyes make her gasp and take a step back in retreat. Although he isn’t transformed more than the dangerous claws she can see sunk into the mud, it’s the shade of his eyes that terrifies her. His once piercing and electric blue hues are now a bright and vicious crimson that burns through her without recognition. She remembers those eyes, was haunted by them once upon a time, and now they stare at her as if she were a target._

_“Peter… what did you do?” This time her voice shakes with dawning horror._

_His head cocks to the side assessing her and she doesn’t dare move an inch. Lydia watches as his hands slowly leave the mud and claws disappear. He blinks once, twice, and – “Lydia?”_

_Without thought she stumbles to him and falls to her knees in front of him. Though her heart sits heavy with confusion and suspicion she wraps her arms around him, his head falling to rest in the juncture of her shoulder and neck. He collapses against her, strings cut, and his body shakes with sobs that tear out of his chest._

_“What happened?” she asks in between shushing him and trying to calm her beast with pretty reassurances._

_He pulls back enough to look her in the eye and she tries not to flinch at the red that stares back at her. His voice is ragged when he speaks. “I didn’t want to… I couldn’t help – I_ **told** _you it would happen again. Why didn’t you listen to me? Why won’t you listen?”_

_“What? You told me_ what _would happen?” she interrupts his rambling by capturing his face between the cage of her palms. “Tell me what happened, Peter. I need you to tell me.”_

_“I killed them. I slaughtered them all…” his voice is eerily calm as he speaks now, none of the trembling from only seconds ago to be heard._

_“Who?” Lydia questions even though she knows the answer already._

_“Your pack,” he says as his demeanor changes swiftly from grief and repulsion to one of arrogance and power right under her hands. “I started with Derek and made your little_ witch _,"_   _he spits out, “watch it all. He was the last, well; technically you’ll be the last but the devil’s in the details.”_

_Her hands fall numbly to her lap as she’s skewered by his unholy gaze._

_“Happy anniversary, dear. Sorry about the blood on your dress, but I have to say that it does make a nice statement.”_

_Lydia doesn’t scream even as she feels the well of her gift fill with trepidation, Death standing at her shoulder closer than it ever has. Nor does she scream when a clawed and inhuman hand closes around her throat. Tears stream down her face, the mud made from the blood of her family seeps into her dress, and she stares into the eyes of her lover and it all goes black._

*

 

Lydia doesn’t wake up screaming like Allison or all at once like Erica had. She wakes up slowly and alone with tears fresh on her cheeks, staining her pillow. She sucks in a breath and muffles a sob against the damp fabric of her pillowcase. Curling into a ball she pulls the cover back up over her head and hides from the world until she can compose herself. She knows it’s only her fear manifesting itself in her dreams but she can’t get the sight of his red eyes out of her head. She hasn’t been afraid of Peter in years but the dream shook her and Lydia wonders if it holds any worth, if maybe he is playing a part. Clutching the blanket to her mouth to stifle a whimper she squeezes her eyes shut tighter willing her mind to shut the fuck up. This isn’t who she is anymore, it’s not who _they_ are now. Allison needs her and now isn’t the time to have another mental breakdown.

As far as inner pep talks go, this one isn’t helping.

Taking a deep and shuddering breath she tries to calm down, and focusing on her breathing she falls back asleep a few minutes later.

This time she doesn’t dream, but across town sits a werewolf on the edge of his bed shaking with the aftermath of a gruesome dream that is his biggest fears come to light.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First let me just say I am soooooooooooooo sorry!!! I know it took me ages and this chapter isn't even that great, but I wanted to get /something/ out for this. I sort of lost my wolfy mojo there for a while, but I'm trying to get it back!  
> So, if you're still hanging in there despite my tardiness, thank you times a million.


	5. The man, the myth, the madness...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wake-up calls for everyone! Possibly.

 

 

It’s well past midnight on Sunday by the time Stiles pulls into his parking spot, the windows of the loft looking eerie where clouds cover the moon in their reflection. He would have stayed again but it had been a weird day at Hale House, the usual last lazy day before the start of the week seeming to suck the life out of the pack a little more viciously than usual. Allison was understandably on edge after her nightmare but it had apparently rubbed off on Lydia or something. She’d been distant and edgy and he’d caught her staring at Peter more times than he’d care to admit. He really wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what was going on there.

Shuddering with the mere thought of _that_ he grabs his bag and slides out of the mom-car. As he shuts the door he spots movement near the entrance to the building and freezes before realizing it’s just a black ball of fluff. The cat oddly doesn’t scamper off as he nears so he bends down and holds out a hand letting the thing sniff him. Its eyes are so dark they blend in with its fur and Stiles can’t help but be a little creeped out. Black cats always have that effect on him. Scratching between its ears, he coos at it for a minute as it purrs, the first raindrop hitting him in the top of the head. Ah, so there’s the storm the weatherman had been predicting all day. At the first crack of lightning the cat streaks away into the shadows leaving Stiles behind to huff.

He bids the thing good luck and wastes no time dashing into the building and up to the loft. And just in time because as he’s sliding the door open thunder rumbles like a bomb and the sky opens up releasing a downpour. Stiles smiles tiredly as his wards hum to life around him with a thought and he locks the door behind him. He double checks, making sure the mountain ash is in place since he isn’t expecting anyone before kicking his shoes off. A yawn catches him by surprise and he grunts in annoyance. He’d practically napped on and off all day and he’d had a full night’s sleep so he really shouldn’t be tired. Except that he is. Oh well.

Moving across the space to his desk with nothing more than the clouded moon and lightning as a light he pulls books out of his bag out from under dirty clothes. He has calls to make tomorrow and oh how he dreads talking to Vladimir again if his contact bails on their end of the bargain. With a sigh Stiles walks to the kitchen and flips the switch but nothing happens. Cursing, he uselessly flips the light switch up and down to relieve his frustration. It doesn’t help. Storms are awesome; storms that knock out his power however are not. So much for the Doctor Who marathon he’d had planned. He risks letting cold air out of the fridge long enough to grab a beer then trudges back into the living room. Collecting his bag from the desk in passing he makes his way up the stairs to his bedroom. No electricity might be a good thing, right? He is pretty tired after all.

Simultaneously tossing clothes into the hamper and draining his beer, Stiles burps loudly and the thunder responds with another _boom_. He does not jump. Or squeak. Nope, he’s a man and… and now he has to piss.

Once he’s emptied his bladder and brushed his teeth he crawls into his bed in nothing but a pair of boxer-briefs with a wide yawn. Pulling the covers up to his ears he curls up on his left side staring at the blank face of his alarm clock, and his phone that should be on the charger. Reaching out he checks his battery; it’s at 73%. It’s not enough to play or watch anything so he opts to send his dad and Derek a text to let them know he’s home and not in a ditch somewhere. (What? He has a bad track record with storms, okay?) His dad replies first, not shockingly because he’s pulling a double shift, then Derek replies with a simple ‘ _Good.’_ making Stiles snort. _So eloquent_ , he thinks and slides his phone back onto the nightstand. Burrowing further under the comforter he lies there for a while just listening to the storm rage outside, the wind whistling, rain pelting the windows.

Slowly he sinks into sleep with nature singing him a foreboding lullaby and across the street from the loft a black cat sits huddled in the shadows, completely unaffected by the storm. Lightning flickers and Stiles’ pendant flares to life with it, and in the shadow the cat is gone. Mere moments later as thunder cracks across the town a figure steps onto the road with eyes the same color as the cat’s, a glowing orb dangling from his neck that’s twin to Stiles’, and wings that drag the ground.

He smiles.

 

*

 

_His hands move as he speaks, a tell to the anxiety that fills his chest. It’s a struggle to keep his eyes firmly on the servants, his mind on his task. A knock upon the heavy door is his salvation as one of them goes to answer it. Stiles ignores the gaze that he feels on his back and gives Isaac a tight smile when he slips into the room._

_“They are ready for him.”_

_Stiles inhales deeply, nodding as he reaches a hand up to gently clasp the nape of his friend’s neck. At the comfort of warm energy sinking into his tense muscles Isaac swallows thickly and breathes out before Stiles will let him go. “Go. We’re coming.” With a nod Isaac turns and leaves the room. Stiles takes a second to compose himself, to push down the growing anticipation that makes him want to run. The sound of water trickling into the tub draws him around._

_Before him the two boys help Derek step out of the tub and Stiles is helpless to the way his gaze sweeps over the body that his hands know so well. They dust him with a fine powder that makes his skin shine with flecks of gold. He watches as they dress him in his Court robe that’s tied at the waist with a rope that’s been stained a dark crimson. They tie his sandals about his legs and slide golden bands onto his wrists. This is a ritual he has seen twice now and he prays to the Gods that this is the last._

_“Leave us,” Derek softly commands once he’s had enough of their attention and the boys do so without question._

_Once the doors are closed behind them Stiles steps closer to Derek but he doesn’t touch him. Derek stares at him and says nothing. They both know there are only two ways this will end: they both will be slain or Derek will be unheard, Stiles branded a heretic and killed as a sacrifice to the Gods in thanks for Derek’s new bride. He wants neither, no, what he wants is to take his rightful place by his Alpha’s side. He fears it will not be granted to them, though. But now isn’t the time for fretting so he pushes it aside and squares his shoulders._

_“Should this end in nightmare,” Stiles vows with a steady voice, “should we fail, know that I will defy the Gods for you.”_

_Derek’s eyes fire brilliantly red and his hands clench into fists. He remains silent because he knows that once a vow is made against Them it cannot be undone. And he knows that Stiles is foolish enough to do whatever he says. His nostrils flare as he steadies himself and dips his head once in acknowledgement before stepping past Stiles. He feels the pads of Derek’s fingers brush the leather cuff that rings his wrist and it’s as close to the caress across his jaw that he would rather have. Summoning his courage with a deep breath he turns and follows._

_Isaac takes his place at Stiles’ side as they move towards the east wing and they walk in silence behind Derek and his guards. The thrum of voices and excitement can be heard before they reach the chamber and Stiles wants nothing more than to call halt. He’s labeled an oracle here in Derek’s kingdom, but to outsiders he is simply a philosopher. If his powers were ever revealed they’d have him stoned or beheaded. Oracles were pure girls trained by the elders and a gift from the Gods. Stiles is neither pure nor female, merely a boy from Derek’s home plucked up for war and deemed unacceptable. They sent him to study instead and so he had learned, and learnt many things. When he’d returned home it was to ruin, the royals dead because of one misstep made by an arrogant man that wanted to test the Gods._

_Derek had been the only one to be spared._

_And so today he is to be wed. Stiles feels his heart harden with dread at the thought. Mari is kind, bright and beautiful even, and he can’t find it in himself to hate her. For two moons he’s watched Derek entertain her and her family and for two moons he has been preparing for today: for today Alpha Hale will renounce his bride and claim his oracle. It has never been heard of let alone accomplished but they have the support of the pack, a handful of elders and Stiles is more powerful than any know. It **will** be done or they will all be damned. _

_The crowd gathered about the hall cheer when they enter and part to make way for them. Isaac breaks formation to join Scott and Boyd with the other soldiers and Stiles moves to the other side of the dais to take his place next to Lydia. Her beauty outshines the bride’s with her plait like strawberry wine draped over her bare shoulder and her pale green dress cleaving to her frame. She gives him a small smile and he lifts his chin in response as the guests are quieted._

_“Today is a day of celebration!” Mari’s stocky father proclaims with his goblet held in the air. “The Gods have looked fondly upon us, the people of Arcadia, and bestowed upon our king his bride.”_

_Derek steps into place, offering a hand to the woman who is to be his and she takes it gliding down the steps to stand by his side. Stiles feels a surge of heat enflame his palms and he inhales deeply to settle it. All eyes are upon the golden king as he turns to face Mari. Stiles cannot hear what he says to her but she nods and releases his hand then steps back._

_“I am pleased that you all have gathered for this ceremony, in honor of our union,” Derek’s voice rings out proudly. “For it is a joyous occasion.” He pauses while they cheer and Stiles’ heart races as he catches Scott’s eyes across the crowd. They glow like the gold that adorns Derek’s skin. “And as it is such, I am deeply saddened to spoil the festivities.” A confused hush comes over the crowd. “I will not be binding myself or my crown to Mari and hers, for it isn’t possible when my affections are bound to another already.”_

_“WHAT IS THIS NONSENSE?!” Mari’s father bellows, his chair falling to the ground in a ruckus as he heaves himself back to his feet. Mari stares at Derek like she’s been slapped. He turns to face those sat at the table upon the dais, his face filled with nothing but remorse._

_“I cannot marry her when it is not for the benefit of my people. I am sorry,” he says to Mari._

_Stiles watches emotions rapidly play across her face, her hands twisting into the white fabric of her dress. She bows her head and Derek’s shoulders slump just a fraction in what appears to be relief. Mari’s father continues to yell as the guests regain their voices and the volume begins to rise. Stiles’ eyes glance to where the others stand for only a second, but it’s one second too many._

_Over all of the angry and confused shouts, it’s the laughter that draws his attention back to where Derek stands. Mari’s head still hangs but her chest heaves with laughter. Her own father pauses in his advance and Stiles barely registers Lydia’s hand wrapping tightly around his wrist. He steps forward but Lydia’s hold is absolute. When Derek takes a step back, it’s then that Mari’s head rises._

_“You are making a terrible mistake, Nyctimus,” she hisses the name as her hands release the material of her dress to fall to her sides. “You know you’re cursed and your precious oracle cannot help you.” Stiles’ title drips with poison and she cants her head in an eerie manner as she takes a step closer to Derek. “They **know** what he is and what **you** are. You hide yourself away on your hill as if the lands haven’t heard of what your father did, as though you could wash clean the very fabric the Fates have spun for you… But you can’t, can you? You still hear their screams and smell their burning **flesh** -” _

_Stiles has heard enough._

_Without a second thought he rips his arm from Lydia’s grasp and gets three steps closer to Derek before Mari’s head snaps around, her eyes pinning him to the spot. Her gaze is that of the Seeing, white and ancient. Her mouth is twisted into an ugly smile as she raises her hand as if to beckon him closer and the air is suddenly sucked from his lungs. He doesn’t panic, not until he sees Derek’s clawed hand reaching for Mari’s throat._

_Everything descends into chaos then._

_Stiles sucks in a lungful of air as Derek’s lethal claws sink into Mari’s throat, her mother screams along with the guests and the sound of swords being unsheathed makes a dreadful melody. Mari’s father doesn’t make it down the dais as with a wave of his hand Stiles breaks the man’s neck. Her cousins and lone brother meet a similar fate as Stiles strides through the pandemonium that’s coalesced around them to reach Derek. He doesn’t see the pack fighting for their lives, nor does he see Allison rend her skirts and climb to a high perch to loose her arrows. His focus is on the Alpha that’s growling into the face of his almost bride. He’s ten feet from them when over everything Lydia’s wail pierces the air. Though the battle continues, Stiles watches in abject horror as Mari laughs a broken and strangled thing once more with blood staining her lips to spill down her chin – her hand buried in Derek’s chest._

_Drums pound from somewhere as Stiles sprints to Derek just as Mari pulls her hand from his chest with a sickening sight then drops to the floor dead. Stiles’ arms wrap around Derek as his legs give out and he catches him, both crumbling to the ground. He maneuvers him so he can see his face and with a hand bloody from the wound he cradles Derek’s face. His gaze is a fading red as Stiles speaks tongues over him and pleads with the Gods to save him when they don’t work. The cacophony of war around them fades as Stiles holds the werewolf in his arms. Derek coughs up blood and Stiles doesn’t care as he leans down and presses his lips against his. The Alpha reaches a clumsy hand up and grasps the wrist that wears their pack’s symbol, the leather cuff a declaration of their bond, and his blood stains. Stiles’ breath hitches on a sob as he feels the life slip from his love._

_He feels the turn of the earth beneath him still as if the very stars that are hung in the heavens are waiting with bated breath. Stiles breathes one last kiss to Derek’s slack lips then lays him down, arranging his arms at his sides, and closing his eyes. He stands as the sound of drums beat angrily and turns his back on the dead only to find more. Though a few are still fighting his eyes search for his pack, his family, and he finds them. Isaac and Scott lay with swords deep and unyielding in their bellies. Boyd holds a broken Erica, his own limbs heavy with death. Lydia is curled over Allison’s shattered body, her fiery hair dark with the archer’s blood. The pounding grows louder as a fury to test Hades himself scorches his veins. There’s a grotesque slit along his darling Lydia’s throat and Stiles feels his heart stop._

_He feels no more._

_There is only the pounding, the beating, the drums, the drums, the **drums** —_

*

 

Stiles bolts upright, chest heaving and utterly discombobulated. He kicks out rather violently, eyes unwilling to adjust to his surroundings as the drums from, from _whatever_ the hell that was continue to thump. He’s drenched in sweat and the light from the window tells him it’s day as he drags a hand over his face but he remains half in that odd fucking horror movie he just witnessed. He sits there in a daze willing the noise to stop when it finally hits him. It's the sound of angry fists banging on his door that wakes him. Groggily he stumbles out of bed, pulls on sweats that he's pretty sure aren't his, and nearly breaks his neck trying to navigate the stairs. When he manages to jerk the door open he comes face to face with one very pissed off Alpha. And his dad. They're both in uniform.

“Wh-tmz-it?” he asks as his brain plays catch up. Once it does he flings a hand out breaking his wards and throws himself at Derek. His arms wrap around the man’s neck and he clings to him for all he’s worth. The rise and fall of Derek’s chest is like a soothing balm to his inflamed soul, proof that it was just a nightmare and Derek is _alive_. Stiles isn’t sure how long he stands there but his dad clearing his throat reminds him of where he is. And oh dear, God… he’s shirtless and that means they’ve seen his tattoos and…

He lets go of Derek and jumps back so fast he almost falls onto his ass.

“You have something you want to tell us, son?”

Stiles eyes widen at his dad’s tone; it’s in full-on Sheriff Mode.

“Uh… about what?” he tries to shake off Derek’s steadying grip with no success.

“Like why you haven’t answered your phone or the _door_ in two damn days?!”

His mouth falls open as his gaze pings back and forth between Derek and his dad. “Two- it’s not Monday?”

“No, _Stiles,_ it’s fucking Wednesday!!!”

Derek must sense his absolute confusion because he releases his arm and Stiles stumbles back into the loft. He reaches up to tug at his damp hair, wracking his brain for an explanation. He hasn’t lost time since high school, since the Nemeton and… No, no, that’s not right, that can’t be it. He’s spelled himself six ways to Sunday to make _sure_ that never happens again. Why would he lose time? He’d come home and gone to bed because the storm knocked the power out. It doesn’t make any sense.

Strong hands grasp his shoulders and spin him around.

“After you text me Sunday night what did you do?” Derek asks as his dad looks on in concern, more than likely thinking the same things Stiles is.

“Nothing, I- the storm knocked the power out again so I drank a beer and went to bed,” He meets Derek’s gaze willing him to hear his honesty. “I haven’t moved from my bed. I went to sleep like a fucking _hour_ ago, I swear.”

“Stiles, Danny couldn’t even get your wards down,” Derek says calmly and Stiles’ heart thuds painfully against his ribcage. “We couldn’t break in or anything.”

“But he always can… he’s the only one that _can,_ ” his voice sounds pathetic to his own ears.

“I think you need to pack up and stay with Derek until we figure this out, son.” John’s tone leaves no room for argument.

Stiles nods easily because now he’s all kinds of freaked out. “Okay, yeah… I can do that.”

“Good,” he moves in and hugs him tightly and Stiles squeezes him back. “I’ll stop by tonight after I pick up Melissa,” he says to Stiles but looks to Derek and continues when they both nod. “I’ll just give you two a minute… and ah, Stiles? We’ll talk about all those tattoos later.”

Stiles groans and crosses his arms over his chest in a pitiful attempt to hide some of the ink. John just shakes his head and leaves. His gaze ticks back to Derek who stands in his personal space staring at him like he’s a stubborn word-find puzzle.

“Sorry about the hug thing… I didn’t, I mean… it just-” Stiles clamps his mouth shut and tugs his fingers through his messy hair. “Right, so you’re obviously working and I’m sorry I scared you, I don’t know what the fuck happened…” he trails off as Derek arches an eyebrow at his rambling.

“We’ll discuss it later. You have an hour to pack your shit and do whatever you need to then get to the house. If I call and you’re not there I will come back for you.”

“No need to be so polite or anything, jeeze.”

“ _Stiles…_ ” Derek growls and he swallows a lump in his throat and ignores the stupid goose bumps that decorate his bare skin.

“Okay! I’ll charge my phone while I pack my stuff, so calm down.” Sighing he mumbles; “You’d think _I_ was the one that died, again, or something. Whoa!”

Derek silences Stiles by yanking him forward and cutting off his yelp with a well aimed kiss. His lips are soft in contrast to the grip that he has around Stiles’ upper arms and he inhales sharply through his nostrils at the thrill of _finally_. It’s chaste and nothing to write home about but Stiles fucking melts. The scent that is purely Derek fills his head and chases the remains of the dream from his mind, and though it only lasts for a few seconds but it’s enough to sear it into his memory. As abruptly as it began, Derek pushes him away and stalks towards the door leaving Stiles stunned and his brain having trouble making heads or tails out of what the hell just happened.

“An hour,” Derek tosses over his shoulder like he didn’t just kiss him for the first time out of the fucking blue and run. Stiles blinks unable to comprehend. It takes a full minute before his computer comes back online and when it does –

“DEREK!!!”

 

* * *

 

Derek slides into the cruiser and slams the door to help muffle the ranting he can still hear coming from the loft. His heart is pounding so hard he’s expecting it to burst out of his chest and splat against the dashboard. It takes him two tries to get his seatbelt latched and only then does he notice the Sheriff staring at him.

“Everything alright there, son?” he asks and Derek can feel the amusement radiating off of the man.

He nods in answer.

“Okaaay…” John says and puts the car in reverse but keeps casting him curious glances.

Derek ignores him. Instead he works to get a hold of his slipping control, his nails digging into his palms to stop the shaking. Jesus, if he’s this rattled by just an innocent _kiss_ – no, he can’t think about that right now. Not with Stiles’ father in the fucking car. He grits his teeth and manages to uncurl a hand to crack his window. The need to run, to disappear into the Preserve is strong but he thinks he’s lost enough of his dignity today.

“You know,” John says conversationally, “Stiles is a menace, but he’s a good kid.”

Derek stares out the windshield, his teeth grinding again.

“And I know you’re a good kid, too, and if you wanted… I mean, if you even –”

“I do,” Derek whispers feeling suddenly small and a little terrified.

“You do? Oh, well that – that’s good,” he clears his throat, one hand fiddling with the buttons on one of the scanners. “I approve, just for the record.”

Derek’s shoulders relax a tiny bit and he replies quietly; “Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” the Sheriff glances at him as he takes a right turn. “Seriously, don’t. We never had this conversation and I never tell Stiles how freaked out you were.”

He meets John’s gaze and Derek’s narrows at the entirely too knowing smirk on the man’s face.

“Deal.”

John’s answering grin feels like a warm hug and Derek chances a small smile in return. Then the moment is interrupted by the squawk of the radio and John flips the lights on and they take off. He works to shift thoughts of Stiles' lips to the side and focus on the job. He’s almost successful.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's method to my madness... I swear.


	6. And fighting all the demons will take time...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theories are made, thoughts are confessed, and a few hearts shatter...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a small caution for some violence, harsh language, bloody surprises, and the damage that I am about to inflict upon your psyche.

 

 

“What are you doing?”

“Research,” Stiles says around the cap of his pen, his gaze trained intently on the book in front of him.

“Work stuff or _tree_ related?”

“Dream related, actually.”

He grunts as Allison deftly plucks the book off of the coffee table and lowers herself to the floor next to him. Turning his attention to his laptop he ignores the interruption. He isn’t sure how long he’s been sitting here lost among old books and Wikipedia pages, alternating between trying to decipher his dreams and why he can still feel the phantom pressure of Derek’s lips on his. So far he hasn’t found an answer to either.

“Um, Stiles…” Allison says quietly drawing his focus from the screen to her furrowed brows. “What exactly did you dream about?”

“Puppies prancing through a field of tulips,” he states evenly. She shoots him a glare and her elbow digs into side but he holds his ground. That morning he’d obeyed his Alpha (and dad) and took a shower then packed his shit and went to Derek’s. However, he’d ignored the pack’s questions and worried cuddling and spread his things out over the coffee table and dived in. He needed answers so he’d started with his only tiny clue: in his dream Mari (which he knows now had actually been freaking _Jennifer_ , and didn’t that make a shit-ton more sense now) had called Derek ‘Nyctimus’. Being in his profession he had a million and one mythological tales and names in his head but this one made his head hurt.

“Stiles, let me help.” Allison beckons and he sighs. He really doesn’t want to involve the pack in whatever his two day nap turned out to be, but he knows they won’t leave him to suffer in peace. Damn their good hearts. Tapping his screen, he spits out the chewed pen cap and stretches his legs out.

“Have you ever heard of the Greek myth of Lycaon?”

Allison’s face pales as she nods making him frown.

“Okay, so what do you know about it?”

“Back in high school when the Darach and the Alpha pack happened, um…” she fidgets with the book she’d stolen then closes it and slides it onto the table. “Scott and I went to – to… We went to see Gerard because of the Deucalion situation.”

“Gerard?!”

She flinches and shrugs. “He had information and we needed it. But anyway, he told us about that myth and how the druids had helped Lycaon and his men learn to shift.”

“No,” Stiles says and she cocks a brow at his stern tone. “That asshole didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about.” Snatching his book up he opens it back up to his page and hands it to her. “Lycaon was the king of Arcadia and he had fifty sons. He thought he was tough shit and decided to test Zeus but it didn’t quite work out like he’d expected. There are a few versions of how it happened, but this one’s my favorite.” Stiles taps at a paragraph and continues. “In this version Lycaon fed Zeus the flesh of a servant to see if he really was omniscient and Zeus being, you know, a freakin’ _god_ knew exactly what was going down. So he upended the dinner table, cursed them all into werewolves, which I imagine looked more like the painful and grotesque 80’s version of the shift, then channeled his inner Thor and struck them all down with lightning: BOOM!”

Allison laughs when Stiles makes sound effects and hand gestures to go with his story and he grins at her.

“So, that’s the end, right? Wrong! Evil Grandpa has the wrong info because druids weren’t even _in_ Arcadia let alone Greece. There’s no way they could have helped Lycaon and his sons learn how to control the shift. I dunno how the Darach thing even got started to be honest, but I suspect Ireland is full of werewolves and some scholar thought it’d be cool to have druids help werewolves and so _ta da_. Instead of druids and emissaries in Greece they would have had oracles, and yeah.” He stops to turn a page and shifts so that he’s facing Allison. “Besides in my favorite version they _died_ so they didn’t even need ‘help’. But, this is where it gets interesting. Gaia, which is basically the Greek version of Mother Earth, stepped in and saved Lycaon’s youngest son, Nyctimus. Mind you this is just the version that makes the most sense to me. Anyway, Nyctimus was the only survivor and went on to step into his father’s shoes as king of Arcadia. His reign didn’t last long, though because it’s said that due to his father’s and brothers’ horrible deeds the kingdom was wiped out by the floods of Deucalion in Noah and the Ark style.”

“Okay, so Gerard was wrong?”

“So very wrong, Jellybean.”

She glares at his grin and reaches up flicking his nose. “Say you’re right, then. What does all of this have to do with your dream?”

The smile fades from Stiles’ face and he closes the book replacing it before slumping back against the middle couch. “I dreamt I was in Ancient Greece or what was probably Arcadia come to think of it. Um… Derek was there, you all were, actually.” He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath letting the fuzzy memory of his dream rush in. His voice is hushed when he continues. “Derek was about to marry Jennifer, her name was Mari there, but, ah… apparently he and I were… yeah. I was an oracle and it was taboo or forbidden I think, but he announced that he was refusing her offer and all hell broke loose. She went all white-eyed and called him Nyctimus…”

Stiles was glad that they were alone because he really didn’t know if he could tell this to anyone else, even if he _knew_ he was going to have to give them all some form of reason for his Sleeping Beauty act. Allison’s fingers threading through his and her head finding the niche of his neck and shoulder anchors him in the moment as his lids lift. Resting his cheek atop the crown of her head he stares at the blank TV screen across the room.

“Do you think it was really a dream?”

“I honestly don’t know what to think.”

It’s a couple minutes before she responds but when she does Stiles’ heart pounds painfully in his chest.

“I dreamed that Gerard burnt me alive… I think it was in medieval Scotland. Lydia was a princess and I was her handmaiden. An alpha murdered her and I couldn’t save her. My – my own mom turned me in and they claimed I’d helped the monsters get into the village. So they labeled me a witch and tied me to a stake like one.” She shudders against his side and Stiles angles himself so he can wrap his free arm around her. “Stiles, it felt _so_ real. When I woke up I could still feel the flames,” she hiccups and burrows closer to him.

“Hey, it’s okay now. You’re safe and Gerard is irrevocably dead. No one is going to touch you here; I won’t let ‘em. I promise.”  

Sniffling, Allison nods. It’s quiet for a beat as they both settle their thoughts then she pulls away, a hand wiping tears from her eyes. “Thanks,” she says with a small smile.

“No problem,” he shrugs and gathers up his research crap, stacking books and notebooks into a tidy little pile.

“Do you think our dreams were memories?”

Her question makes him pause for a second. He’d considered that possibility but figured it was just his imagination. But her question and the confession of her own dream makes him think maybe he should recalculate his theory.

“Honestly? Maybe… If that were true though I’d think that they were more like memories of our past lives?” He hedges and she scrunches up her nose cutely. “Like, I don’t know if you believe in reincarnation, but with our lives I figure anything is possible at this point. So just maybe these surreal dreams are those of another time or hell, maybe they’re from an alternate _version_ of us!”

“Time travel and alternate universes aren’t real, Sparky.”

Stiles flashes a grin at both her Clark Griswold reference and her skepticism. “Don’t be so sure. You didn’t believe in Fate or werewolves once upon a time either.”

Allison holds up her hands in surrender. “Okay, point for you. Sooo, say our dreams were real once, are memories. Then what’s making us see them _now_?”

“That, my dear, is the sixty-four dollar question.”

 

* * *

 

“No, I’m serious! Listen, it says; _‘Ro'kenhronteys exists in the Dream World going after anyone that has betrayed or turned their backs on someone's plight. He can only be warded away by a symbol similar to how the cross can ward away the Devil and can only be stopped if someone faces their own personal challenge by accepting what they did in the Dream World.’_  Who has had a fucked up dream since me and Boyd got back?”

Derek sits down on the bench inside the door to tug his boots off. He’s tired and starved and beyond glad to be home. He listens to Stiles huff as the pack no doubt ignores him.

“See, Alli loves me. Anyway, I know a couple of you have had nightmares and I think this is the answer. It’s the fucking Sandman!”

“Stiles, he is a character on a TV show. He isn’t _real._ ” Lydia says pointedly and Derek frowns at the undertones of stress he can hear in her voice.

“Yeah, and banshees used to just be a fairytale, too!” he retaliates sharply.

Derek sighs and stands to hang up his holster.

“Did you find anything other than that paragraph on this creature?”

“Well, no…”

“I rest my case.”

On silent steps Derek walks into the kitchen finding his pack gathered. The men along with Lydia are settled into their usual seats at the round table while Allison and Erica are whispering over a pot of something on the stove. At his approach he gets smiles and nods but Stiles’ back is to him so he moves in. Snatching the laptop off the table, he stamps down the urge to smirk as Stiles turns into his gangly, flailing teenage self.

“You know the rule: no laptops at the table.”

“But I –”

“I don’t care.” Turning his gaze to where Lydia is sat oddly close to his uncle he arches a brow causing her to scowl. He shrugs it off. “I’m going to shower. Sheriff and Melissa will be here in a few.” He shakes his head at the question he sees in her eyes. Jackson had made a point to text him and let him know he was going to Danny’s an hour away and wouldn’t be here for supper. He kind of doesn’t blame him.

Leaving behind a grumbling Stiles, Derek carries his laptop up to his room, dropping it onto his bed before digging out a pair of plaid pajama pants and a simple black t-shirt. His shower is quick and blessedly void of thought, the hot water working a near miracle to loosen his tight muscles. Once he smells less like stale coffee and criminal stench he pads back down the stairs and takes his seat at the table. Content to sit and let the thrum of his pack soak into him, Derek relaxes for the first time in over two days. Stiles going MIA or on some kind of supernatural lockdown had taken its toll on him. They’d called and at first figured that he was just asleep or too busy with work to answer. It’d happened before. But when Derek had started to get an itch under his skin, his wolf gnawing at his leash, he’d gone to the loft only to find nothing. Stiles’ wards were humming, including the soundproof one and Derek had flipped his lid.

After trying to get through the wards on his own and failing he’d called Danny. When _he_ couldn’t get them down or around them Derek knew that something was wrong. They had called Deaton but to no avail, either. The infuriating man had asked what they’d tried and said that he didn’t know of any other options and he’d get back to them. At rope’s end Derek had finally caved and told the Sheriff. John had panicked at first then he’d just gotten angry. Derek had never been so happy to have that man angry when Stiles had finally thrown open the door looking like a confused puppy. His surprise hug had been unexpected and it took every ounce of Derek’s control to keep his hands to himself.

The kiss was pure instinct, though. His wolf had demanded attention, that he give recognition to the fact that their mate was alive and whole. Stiles’ response had made him want to purr like a damn cat and for a fleeting moment he’d wanted to take Stiles back home and press him into his mattress. But he’d wrangled his control back into submission and did what he was good at: he fled.

John’s blessing had been eye opening, though. Was he really that transparent? Had his desire for Stiles really become so _obvious_? He knew the girls knew because they were too damn meddling for their own good, but the Sheriff? Fuck.

“Do I have something on my face?”

Derek blinks Stiles into focus, realizing guiltily that he’d been staring at him for who knows how long. He chooses not to answer his question and is saved regardless by the Sheriff and Melissa’s arrival. Shortly after, supper is dished up and conversation turns to Stiles. He listens to the lame excuse he gives; sleep paralysis, night terrors, making him unconsciously supply his wards with more energy than normal. Derek notices Allison studying her plate like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the room, his brows knitting. She blushes when she catches his stare and averts her eyes. Something is going on.

Taking a bite of his pasta he studies his pack a little more closely. Despite sleeping for two days (or so he says) Stiles has dark shadows under his eyes. Erica ignores the talk of nightmares completely but he notes how tightly she grips her fork, her heartbeat just this side of racing. Lydia’s face, while blank and appearing bored, her body language is defensive… defensive and positioned closer to Peter than what’s normal. It almost appears that she’s shielding him, ready to defend him or something. Derek’s stomach swoops uneasily. Peter had changed so much and if he was reverting back to his old behavior… He really doesn’t want to have to put him down. And he really doesn’t want to know what, if anything, is going on there. What Lydia does with her time outside of pack business was only his problem if she made it so.

Everyone else appears to be fine, but there is definitely _something_ going on. He drains the last of his beer then finishes his food while they chatter around the table. When supper is over, the parents have left, and the fight over the remote is settled, Derek has made up his mind to get to the bottom of it. He waits until Scott leaves for work and everyone filters out of the living room to go to bed. Following Stiles up the stairs he says goodnight to the pack and goes into his bedroom, closing the door behind him. He knows it won’t take long as he gets comfortable with Stiles’ laptop balanced on his thighs and Daredevil playing on Netflix.

He’s an episode in and the house has gone quite with nothing but the sounds of the forest reaching his ears when his door cracks open. Stiles’ mouth falls open when he sees him and he quietly steps inside, the soft _snick_ of the door closing behind him like a metaphorical puzzle piece snapping into place. Without a word Stiles climbs onto the bed making himself at home and Derek ignores him.

They only make it through one episode before he can’t anymore, though.

“What happened, Stiles?”

Stiles sighs loudly and straightens out of his slump against Derek’s pillows, hands dragging over his face then carding through his hair. Derek wants to follow their path with his own hands. He closes the laptop instead and sets it aside.

“I already told you and the pack what –”

Derek’s knowing, narrowed eyes cut him off and Stiles rolls his eyes as he moves around so he’s facing Derek.

“Fine,” he breathes out then proceeds to tell Derek about his ‘dream’. He spares no details and they cut him to the bone. Stiles’ voice conjures the vision in his mind with a strange clarity and fuck, he _wants_ the parts where they were together. He answers the very few questions Derek asks then goes on to tell him about his and Allison’s theory. He doesn’t mention his own nightmare that had left him gasping for breath and aching for Stiles. It had already happened anyway so it didn’t match with their reincarnation/alternate thing.

When Stiles is done he stares at Derek and he says the only thing he thinks is safe ground; “So you think the Sandman is behind all of this?”

“Go ahead and laugh!” Derek feels suddenly nervous when something sparks behind Stiles eyes and he narrows his gaze at him. Stiles leans in so close Derek’s heart thunders in its cage and he eyes him like he’s a tricky new problem. His voice is a heavy whisper when he speaks this time. “Why did you kiss me?”  

Every muscle in Derek’s body locks down and his gut squeezes up painfully. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply through his nostrils, steeling himself for _this_ discussion he should have seen coming. Opening his eyes he finds Stiles studying him with a laser focus.

“I was worried about you,” he tries out.

“Yeah, I got that, but that’s not why you did it. Come on, Derek, you can’t shit me, not about this.”

Derek deflates instantly at the pleading tone in Stiles’ words. “I don’t know, okay?” He roughly rubs at his face and prays for patience. “I felt like it. You scared the shit out of us – me…”

“I’m sorry,” he offers.

“Don’t, you didn’t _do_ anything. I shouldn’t have and I’m sorry.”

“You’re an idiot, you know that, right?”

“What? Why?”

“Because,” Stiles rolls his eyes at him again and in a blink he surges forward pressing his lips to Derek’s. Any protest flies right out of his head and his hands move on their own mission to capture Stiles’ face between them. Stiles pulls back three seconds later and meets Derek’s eyes. He must find whatever he searches for because in the next second he’s nipping at his bottom lip.

Derek knows he should put a stop to this, knows that this isn’t how things were supposed to happen, but he can’t remember why that is. All of his logical reasons have abandoned him as Stiles’ tongue maps out the cavern of his mouth. It’s only their second kiss but, fuck if he isn’t already addicted to this man’s taste. Can he have this every day? Is it possible that he gets a chance to have _true_ happiness? The mint of Stiles’ toothpaste and that spicy edge that’s just _mate_ makes him think that anything is possible. Without realizing what he’s really doing, his hands move to Stiles’ hips and in a fluid move he has Stiles laid out under him. The brunette’s eyes are wide, dark pools of sin and he’s so close to drowning.

“What the _fuck_?” He grits out knowing that his eyes are flickering crimson, his arms trembling where they hold him up from the frame that he so desperately wants to sink into.

“ _What_?” Stiles mocks with a heaving breath.

Derek opts not to drown tonight and squeezes his eyes tightly to muzzle his growling libido. Flopping onto his back with a foot of space between them once he can breathe somewhat normally again, Derek sighs loudly in frustration. He doesn’t bother to hide the erection that strains against his sleep pants and stares at his ceiling. Stiles huffs like a petulant child as silence settles around them.

“We can’t ignore this anymore, can we?”

He shakes his head at the quiet question.

“What are we gonna do about it, then?”

He shrugs this time. Obviously just as frustrated as Derek is, Stiles moves to get out of bed and Derek panics. He grabs Stiles’ wrist, gentling his grasp immediately.

“Stay.”

The simple word crashes into the bottom of his heart, heavy like an anchor and he knows that it’s going to change everything. If Stiles leaves his room they can pretend that tonight, that today never happened. If he stays then when morning dawns there will be no ignoring or pretending. He knows what _he_ wants but he isn’t sure what Stiles wants.

It all terrifies him.

Stiles turns onto his side and Derek follows his example. Their hands move into the space between them and weave together while they watch each other, the moonlight peeking through his blinds their only light. Stiles falls asleep first and only when Derek’s lids begin to droop does he allow himself to really hope.

 

* * *

 

Scott slips into the dark house with a yawn. He’s so exhausted and absolutely thrilled that they’d been slow enough to send him home early. Toeing his shoes off, he relocks the door and hangs up Allison’s keys with all the others. Sighing and wiggling his free toes he makes a detour into the kitchen. Grabbing him a glass he fills it with water and moves to the fridge where he stands guzzling his drink then eats leftovers with the door standing wide open. When he’s staved his hunger enough that his stomach isn’t growling anymore he tiptoes up the stairs and heads straight for the bathroom. He strips down tossing his scrubs into the hamper then takes a quick shower to get the sterile smell of the hospital off of his skin.

After drying off he pads bare-assed across the hall to the bedroom. Not bothering to do more than pull on a pair of boxer-briefs he crawls into bed and curls around Allison. She mumbles at him adorably and he nuzzles the back of her neck, a wandering hand sneaking under her shirt and palming a breast. Her heel connecting with his shin is enough to have him retreating to the safer plane of her stomach and smiling goofily and sleepily into her warm skin. With another jaw cracking yawn he’s out like a light, wet hair dampening his pillow, and arms going slack around Allison.

Down the hall Stiles turns over in his sleep, Derek naturally following the motion and burying his nose in the hair at the nape of Stiles’ neck and neither of them notice the glow from under Stiles’ shirt.

 

*

 

_The screech of music is so loud it makes his ears hurt, the treble fast, vocals as deep as the bass and yelling to the beat of an angry drum. The room’s lit by flashing strobe lights that seem to flicker with the beat and glaring neon lights that are too blurry in the haze of the room to make out. Someone is smoking and the stench in the place is acrid. A hand clamps down on his shoulder and Scott jerks at the touch._

_“Dude, would you chill out?”_

_“Fuck you,” he says easily and snatches the beer out of the air where it floats in front of his face._

_“Jesus, you’d think you got reamed out again. Relax, man, this is our night off.”_

_Scott drains half of the useless beer that won’t make him feel anything and turns his attention away from where Aiden is lowering into a chair at his right. The music fades for a beautiful minute before it starts up again, this time with a familiar intro that makes him sit up straighter in the uncomfortable plastic chair. It causes Aiden to grin wickedly while Ethan frowns from Scott’s left, though. He ignores them both as the lights blink with the twang of the guitar heralding the entrance of the dancer onto the stage._

_She’s tall, taller in those stilettos, her outfit is ripped strategically, there’s too much makeup caked on her face, her hair is too long and straight, and those bangs are wrong. But if he ignores where he is and focuses on those eyes that are the same shade of whiskey; it’s **her**. Scott’s grip on his beer tightens and his cock hardens. She begins her routine and he doesn’t care that his eyes are dangerously red, nor does he care that he’s stooped so low. _

_‘Now you’re lying on the floor, yeah you can’t take anymore. The devil’s laughing in your face, give me another taste…’_

_Hair black as midnight swings with her movement and Scott’s beer bottle shatters as he sits transfixed. The heartbeat of the song sings through his veins as flashes of another time and a place he’d left behind superimposes itself overtop of the stripper that looks eerily like Allison. It’s like a flip-book: fast and jerky._

_Deucalion whispering in his ear – Stiles crying and begging him to change his mind._

_Chris and John training their guns on him – Lydia screaming and holding Derek’s lifeless body._

_Allison rising from her father’s prone form and turning to him with a face ravaged by hatred – Allison’s blood seeping into his torn clothes, dripping from his claws._

_Stiles’ blank stare before he turned his back on him – Peter’s knowing and proud smirk as he’d joined Deucalion and walked away from everything he’d ever known._

_The music dies and Ethan’s grip on his forearm hauls him to his feet. Minutes, hours, days, he doesn’t care, they pass and he finds himself in his bed. The house creaks and upstairs Kali’s radio is muffled behind the all but nonexistent soundproofing. He ignores the way Ennis moans when he comes. Reaching for his remote he turns his own music on, glad that he’d taken the basement for his own, as far away from his ‘pack’ as he could get. It takes not surprisingly thirty seconds before his door opens. Ethan stands and stares at him as the song blares and Scott doesn’t bother to cover up his bare frame where he’d kicked the sheet off, he lets him look his fill._

_‘One, two, three, what should I do? Get fucked up and fuck up’pa you.’_

_Scott smirks and Ethan closes his door. He fucks him into the dirty mattress till they’re both out of breath, the twin is begging, and the sheets are shredded from his claws. There’s blood dripping down Ethan’s spine and chest from Scott’s fangs and he licks it off with a satisfied growl. The music plays out until there’s nothing but silence and everyone is asleep. Everyone but Scott. He stares into the darkness and it’s in these quiet moments that he lets everything out of its Pandora’s Box. Elongated nails dig into his palms as the pain latches onto the burnt out shell of his heart first. Next is the guilt that bubbles up in his throat and makes him gag. The grief forces him to spring up from the bed and skitter across the hardwood floor and back himself into a corner._

_The buzz of sex and the high he gets from seeing the stripper that looks like his dead, his – it’s all gone. He ruined his life. He turned them all against him and slaughtered everyone else. He tries to shake off the hands that are grabbing at him but he’s trembling too hard. He pushes farther into the corner, his arms coming up to simultaneously shield him from the do-gooder and hold onto the crippling agony just a little longer. It’s all he has left. He can’t – he can’t **breathe** and he just wants to claw his own heart out. _

_A growl rips out of him as hands band around his wrists and an arm fastens relentlessly about his neck. He’ll tear them to fucking shreds, he’ll break them just like he –_

* * *

 

Derek grunts when Scott lands an elbow to his stomach but doesn’t loose his hold on his beta’s sweaty skin. He nods at Boyd and the wolf strains to pull Scott’s arms down all while dodging his kicking feet. Derek impossibly tightens his arm around Scott and gets first one arm down and locks it in place with a thigh. The terror and confusion coming from the rest of his pack is enough to make him partially shift but it’s the vitriol that’s spewing from Scott’s mouth that’s notching up his own fear. Getting him in a chokehold is harder than it would normally be because Scott is fighting with a blind panic and the depth of utter agony that laces his scent is fucking terrifying. Derek sinks claws into the meat of Scott’s inner forearm when he catches it mid-flail and like a switch has been flipped he goes limp.

Breathing heavily he loosens his arm around the beta’s neck and the claws from his arm as his features shift back into human. Rearranging Scott into the ‘V’ of his legs and his arms, he thunks his head back against the wall and takes a deep resetting breath. Opening his eyes he looks out at his pack and takes another for good measure.

“Lydia, will you and Isaac please take Allison downstairs and get her a glass of water?” At the redhead’s nod all it takes is her soothing promises to coax the shaking girl from the room. Derek meets Boyd’s eyes where he’s sat at their feet. “You can go back to bed, we’re good.” He shakes his head like Derek knew he would but he does get up and nudge Erica away from her post by the door. He doesn’t even bother telling Stiles to go away but he does notice how quiet he is where he’s perched on the edge of the bed, his toes just brushing Scott’s ankle.

“You still think it’s funny?” he asks oh-so quietly.

“No. And I don’t care where you got it but that necklace needs to be burnt. Whatever this is has to do with that – that _thing._ ” Derek declares with a flash of red.

They had been sound asleep one minute then Derek’s eyes had flown open. His instincts told him something was off but he couldn’t place it until Stiles had rolled over. He’d been about to ask what the fuck was with the glowing thing but he’d heard Allison’s yelp and Scott’s growl. He was out of bed and in their room before Stiles could even blink. Scott’s eyes had been wide open and shining bright and angry but it had been the wave of hopelessness that’d hit him square in the chest that made him move. He knew that feeling all too well and whatever Scott was dreaming Derek knew without a doubt that it was connected to that necklace.

Stiles’ shoulders slump and Derek wants to hold him and tell him it isn’t his fault but he pushes past those feelings and focuses on the situation. Twenty four minutes later just as the sun begins to warm the curtains to a happy yellow, Scott groans and comes around. His lashes blink open and Derek says a prayer of thanks to whoever will listen that he’s met by confused and brown puppy eyes.

“Derek?” Scott croaks and he doesn’t hesitate to squeeze his beta to him in a thankful embrace. Scott lets him for a moment then he pushes up and notices Stiles.

“Hey, buddy. How you feeling?” Stiles goes for easy but Derek can hear the strain in his voice.

“Uh… like I got into a fight,” his brows knitting in confusion as he raises his arm and eyes the slowly healing marks from Derek’s claws.

“Yeah, you did. Derek here had to do a Captain America move on you and choked you out.”

“Ouch…” Scott whispers as Derek watches his spine straighten, his muscles going tight in realization. “ _ALLISON!_ ” he yells like he’s scared to death and staggers to his feet before getting his footing and disappearing out the door. Derek listens to him jump the stairs and sprint into the kitchen then stops listening when Allison burst into fresh tears.

Stiles stands and offers him a hand up and Derek takes it, but instead of following him out he jerks Stiles back towards him. Neither of them say a word but they don’t need to as Derek leans in, arms snaking effortlessly around Stiles’ lithe frame, and he nuzzles the side of his neck inhaling his scent like a junkie. At first Stiles’ hands are hesitant but at Derek’s whimper (and he’ll deny it was one till the day he dies) they delve into his sleep rumpled hair. Derek isn’t ashamed to hold onto his infuriating Emissary long enough to settle his fraying nerves, not when he can feel the tension slip from both of them at the mere contact. Stiles tugs on his hair after a minute and Derek reluctantly pulls back though Stiles doesn’t let him go far.

“I’ll fix this,” he amends and vows in a single breath and Derek knows he will. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact time! The whole Dark!Scott thing is actually a story line that I RP'ed once or twice. It was grand.   
> Next on the list: Ta Da! Now they both know and can smoochie boochie. Ha.   
> The songs in Scott's dream were as follows: In the strip club she dances to Rob Zombie's 'House of 1000 Corpses' and Scott also plays Zombie with 'Pussy Liquor'. And the chapter title comes from Dishwalla's 'Angels or Devils' which I was listening to when I posted this. LOL   
> Lastly, I'm 96% positive that we are in the home stretch now! There will probably be two more chapters, at most, and an epilogue.   
> OH! And I almost forgot, in my humble opinion Jeff Davis has the worst mythological researchers EVER and yes, I actually researched what I wrote. There were no druids in Greece and there weren't any remaining werewolves after Zeus' massacre to be HELPED. So... yeah. My inner geek is coming out again and I am just gonna go eat some ice cream.


	7. Everything I am.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A light-show illuminates the truth...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know it's been over two years. My apologies. I'll save them for the ending.

 

 

The air in the Hale house that morning is somber and hushed. The pack walk around lost in their own thoughts, the aftermath of Scott’s dream having made them all take another look at theirs. Stiles doesn’t even bother trying to lighten the mood. It’s sad in a way, that he and Derek can’t celebrate their revelation. The way Scott clings to Allison and refuses to breathe a word about whatever happened only hours before overshadows everything. So he sits in his usual place between Derek and Lydia, eats his breakfast although he doesn’t taste it, and plots.

He’s had enough. Scott’s episode was the last straw and Stiles is determined to figure out just what he’d brought home to terrorize his pack. The necklace is sealed in a pouch of mountain ash and tucked away in his bag, and he plans on making his getaway soon as he can.

“ _Stiles_.”

Jumping at the kick to his shin, he glances at Derek with alarm. “What?!”

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop,” Derek orders and Stiles makes a face at him.

“I have to go to the loft.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Let him go.”

They both look at Scott, his head bowed over his plate.

“Scott—” Derek starts but the look in Scott’s eyes when he raises his head is enough to stall him.

“Just… be careful, Stiles. And come home, okay?”

Stiles nods with wide eyes, his gaze ticking between his best friend and their Alpha. Derek just sighs; his features resigned as he pushes back from the table and leaves the kitchen. Stiles knows he isn’t angry, but scared, and that’s precisely _why_ Stiles must go. He has to figure this out before it steals more than a few nights’ sleep from them. Allison offers him a sad smile when he glances at her and he returns it before standing. Lydia’s hand shoots out gripping his wrist before he can leave, though.

“Call if you need _anything_ ,” she says softly, her eyes are sparking with fire.

Nodding, he leans down and presses his lips to her temple, and satisfied she lets him go. Stiles pushes his chair in and moves to where Scott is still bent over his plate, picking at his food. He doesn’t have to say a word, just scoots in between Lydia and the werewolf, and Scott lets go of Allison long enough to stand and let Stiles envelope him. Scott buries his face in the crook of his neck and Stiles holds on for dear life. He isn’t sure what Scott saw in his nightmare but if it was anything like his or Allison’s, well, he can guess. Neither of them attempts to hide their wet eyes when they separate. He kisses the top of Allison’s head, says bye to the others, and goes in search of Derek.

He finds him in his bedroom, slumped on the end of his messy bed, with his head in his hands. Stiles shuts the door behind him quietly then moves to stand in front of the Alpha. Derek drops his hands to dangle between his knees and looks up at him. He stares at him for a good minute before Stiles can’t take it anymore and takes the step that puts him between Derek’s legs. Stormy eyes hold his for what feels like forever as warm hands find cold skin, trailing up and down his spine. Derek exhales through his nostrils like he’s been holding his breath, then bands his arms around Stiles’ middle dragging him close as he can be, his forehead finding a resting place against Stiles’ stomach. Stiles cards his hands through Derek’s hair and this is the most peaceful he’s felt in a very long while.

“Please be careful,” Derek says quietly.

Using his position to his advantage, Stiles tugs gently on Derek’s hair and captures his face between his palms when he raises his head. Instead of giving him reassurances that he can’t know are honest or not, Stiles bends and presses his lips to other man’s. Derek sighs, his breath ghosting across Stiles’ lips. It isn’t chaste, nor is it passionate, for it to be so new. It’s _sweet_ and a promise.

“Call you later, okay?”

Derek nods, his nose nudging Stiles’ with the movement, and releases him. Stiles offers him a smile before he turns and plucks his bag from atop the dresser.

 

*

 

“Are you fucking serious?!” Stiles exclaims, a cry of outrage emitting from his lips. Energy crackles in waves around him as he closes his eyes and breathes deeply. It’s a struggle to unclench his fingers from around his phone. He places the device atop his cluttered desk lest he chuck it across the room. Watching it shatter into a million pieces would make him extremely happy right about now.

Upon returning to the loft and erecting some heavy-duty wards, he’d wasted no time. First step in his mission had been to call the little store in Texas, where he’d picked up the pendant. A lot of good that had did him, though. The number had rung once then a recorded voice informed him that the number was no longer in service. Going to Plan B, he then called one of the betas that he’d befriended while there. Tia had run a little errand for him and gone to the shop where he’d snagged his knickknacks and surprise necklace.

Only, once she’d gotten there it was to an abandoned storefront.

Like the shop never existed, the inside gutted, gravel parking lot deserted.

A fucking ghost town.

Needless to say, Stiles was a bit angry.

After reining in his temper, Stiles marches up the spiral staircase, on a mission. In his bedroom, he crawls under his bed and drags out a box the size of a small microwave. With a few muttered incantations, it flares a pale yellow and the lid flies open. Reaching inside he carefully removes a large book and gets to his feet.

Back downstairs, a symbol drawn in the center of the floor of his living room, Stiles takes a deep breath. Normally he would never even touch the book in the magic-locked box under his bed, but desperate times and all. Gathering a wooden ritual bowl from the bookshelf behind the stairs, Stiles digs through his bottom desk drawer. All of the ingredients in hand he moves to the center of the drawn circle. Following the instructions to a ‘T’, Stiles takes a moment to admire his work.

Six symbols are drawn inside the circle in perfect symmetry, the bowl in the center filled with a powder the color of freshly spilled blood. Rising to his feet, Stiles steps out of the circle and with a snap of his fingers plunges the loft into complete darkness. Five candles are lit with a murmured command as he lazily strolls around the outer ring. Levitating the book by his left elbow, he carefully pierces the flesh of his palm, his voice steady as he recites the ancient language. The first drop of blood into the bowl does nothing. The second hisses when it hits the powder below. The third drop turns into a small stream as his fist closes tightly, the contents of the bowl now seeming to boil. A red cloud of smoke is belched from the bowl, making Stiles yank his hand back and step away. For ten tension filled seconds nothing happens.

His book drops to the concrete floor with a _bang_.

The candles sputter out.

Golden eyes, more brilliant than any beta’s, blink sleepily at him from inside the circle. The candles flutter back to life. Rooted to the spot by fear, Stiles stares at the man. And that’s what _it_ is. He’s trapped a fucking man inside his circle. Hair jet black and artfully tousled, gleaming olive skin stretched over a bone structure that Michelangelo could have created. His clothes are tailored to fit his tall frame; deep navy trench coat atop black button-down and black slacks. Stiles has a fleeting pang of longing. _What the fuck,_ his brain helpfully supplies.

“What the fuck?” his mouth repeats.

“Oh, do forgive me. I have not been summoned in centuries.”

Stiles watches in fascination as the man adjusts his flipped-up collar, smoothes an elegant hand through his hair, and _bows_.

“You…”

“Yes, I suppose that’s not necessary in this age, now is it? My apologies.” He straightens back up and eyes Stiles, a smile sleeping in the corner of is mouth. “How can I be of service, Oracle?”

Stiles’ stomach rolls, his heart dropping to his feet. Flashes of his two-day nightmare skip behind his eyes. Oracle, that’s what he’d been in the dream, but he—he’s not a—

“I’m not an oracle!”

“You’re not?”

“No!”

“Only those with knowledge of the Seeing can summon me.”

“Well, that’s obviously bullshit.”

“What of your rearing? Did you not learn under a Master?”

“I’m not a fucking Jedi!”

“What is a Jedi?”

“It’s a—Wait! No, I can’t believe this.” Stiles drags agitated hands through his hair and takes a deep breath. This situation is fucking strange and absolutely _not_ helping his rage. “Who are you?”

“You called me to you, yet you know not?”

Stiles flails his hands in response.

The man stands to his full, imposing height, broad shoulders back and spine straight. With a wave of his hand, the power comes back on and the candles snuff out leaving smoke rising around his long legs. Stiles swallows thickly and takes a step back when he steps from the confines of the circle.

“I am Morpheus; God of Dreams. How may I serve?”

Stiles’ mouth drops open in astonishment.

“Greek God… you are a…”

“So it would seem.”

“Poppies, dreams,” Stiles mutters, adding things up in his head.

“Those are lovely, but not in bloom this time of year, I’m afraid,” he nonchalantly comments, his eyes scanning the room while the Oracle whispers to himself. His gaze lands on the terribly messy desk sat in front of the windows and narrows. Stepping around the troubled man, he walks towards it. Snapping out of his thoughts, Stiles blinks at the empty circle then spins around. The man— _Morpheus_ —is holding the poppy pendant in his hands and staring intently at it. He brushes mountain ash from his fingers and meets Stiles’ eyes.

“Where did you get this?”

“A thrift store in Texas, that no longer exists.”

“How many are in your pack?”

“Nine,” Stiles responds automatically.

Morpheus inhales deeply, his eyes closing as he threads the chain of the pendant through his fingers. When he opens them, their golden focus pins Stiles to his place. “Not all of them are wolves,” he states instead of asking. Stiles shakes his head. “There has been great loss, but you’ve finally found your way together. Gaia is no doubt very proud of herself.”

“Mother Earth? You’re joking, right?”

“On the contrary, she’s a very proud woman. Her temper is worse than Uncle’s, though.”

“But… Your _uncle_ is Thanatos… Fucking _Hades_!”

“Oh, he does hate to be called that.”

Stiles laughs, because if he doesn’t his mind is going to explode; _Boom_ , grey-matter everywhere.

“Now, that we’ve established who we are, care to tell me why you called me?”

The tension clicks back up. Stiles stops laughing and stares at the man, the _god_.

“I picked up that little trinket and put it on, like an idiot. Since it’s been in my possession my pack, myself included, have been experiencing nightmares. Not just ‘your worst fear’ nightmares, but bathed in blood and fire and—it knocked me out for _two_ days! It’s terrorizing my family and I want it to stop!”

“Nightmares?”

“My entire pack was slaughtered, Derek—Allison was burnt at the stake, Scott won’t talk—”

“What could have been, slivers of past that _have_ been.”

“Reincarnation? I was right?”

“Not necessarily, but I suppose that would be in the same coliseum, yes.”  

“So, Derek was Nyctimus?”

“Shared souls are not my department… Neither are nightmares.”

“So you didn’t plant your pendant on me for fun, to sit and watch the little mortals pull their hair out?”

“Do not mistake me for my Uncles. I gather no pleasure from the strife of mortals.”

Uncles: touchy subject. Right.

So if you didn’t set me up, then who did?”

“I am afraid that I know precisely who is to blame. This is my talisman, yes, but it was stolen over a century ago.”

Stiles watches as Morpheus’ eyes close simultaneously with his fist around the poppy pod. His voice is a hypnotic melody, lips forming around words that throb with power. The energy in the loft shifts sending goose bumps skittering across his limbs. Light seeps from between the god’s fingers just as a soft _pop_ sounds from behind Stiles. He turns and stares.

“Hello, brother.”

Where Morpheus is dark, his brother is light. Wheat-colored locks fall across his brow, a jaw sharp enough to cut glass shifts with his smirk. His eyes are pitch black and endless, no white to be seen. If that isn’t alarming enough, there are giant _wings_ sprouting from his shoulder blades. They cradle his shoulders and sweep the ground. Stiles is speechless.

“You’ve been playing again.”

“Twas nothing but a little entertainment.”

Morpheus sighs as though tired and moves to stand beside Stiles.

“Grandmother would be so disappointed.”

“Perhaps you’re angry that I am her favorite?”

“Never.”

“Ah, yes, Father’s beloved son; he who lures the mortals into falsehoods with pretty visions.”

“I’ll not apologize, Phobetor.”

“Of course not.”

“Okay—okay, can someone please tell the mere _mortal_ what in the hell is going on?!”

Both Morpheus and Phobetor turn their gazes to Stiles. The _winged demon_ , because that’s what he has to be, simply stares at him with those creepy eyes and continues to smirk. However, Morpheus hangs the poppy pod pendant around his neck and places a consoling hand on Stiles’ shoulder.

“Oracle—he speaks over Stiles’ attempt to correct him—this is my little brother, Phobetor; God of Nightmares. I presume it safe to say that he is the cause of your woes.”

“You wound me, brother. I merely pluck at strings and plant little seeds.”

“Yes, and you’ve had your fun, now run along.”

“You merely… You fucking asshole!” Something inside of Stiles chooses that precise moment to _snap_. “You’ve turned my pack into a paranoid ball of terror! You put _me_ in a coma and forced me to watch my entire _life_ end with a bloody fucking fight!” Stiles’ fingers flex as his magic swirls in his stomach. He steps away from Morpheus toward his brother, his frame strung tight with rage, each step taking him closer to revenge. “You fucked with my Alpha’s head, you tormented my _brother_ , AND I’VE HAD ENOUGH!”

His fingers clench around the blonde’s lapels as they stand toe-to-toe. There’s a white-hot energy bubbling in his chest and he can’t hear anything over the volume of it. Derek’s defeated eyes, Scott, Allison, and Erica’s terrified gazes, his father’s helpless look when they both thought the worst. Stiles never wants to see those things again. Magic pulses under his skin as Phobetor’s black eyes stare into his own, his own white eyes. He doesn’t even realize that they’re filmed over, completely milky with power as he challenges the god.

“You’re a _brave_ little Oracle, aren’t you?”

Phobetor’s whisper lights the fire on Stiles’ very short fuse.

Blinding white light surges from his palms and into the winged man.

Stiles knows no more.

 

* * *

 

“ _Scott, go call John_.”

Melissa’s soft voice sounds as if it’s underwater. Or maybe he’s the one that’s underwater. His head feels like it’s floating away from his body, barely tethered to his neck. But his limbs are heavy. His lids try to open but they’re weighted down, too. He lets himself drift back down into the darkness.

 

*

 

_“You don’t know your own strength, Oracle.”_

_Stiles blinks, glances to his left then right. He’s sat on the bleachers, the lacrosse field deserted in front of him, and the sun warming his aching head. Why does his head hurt so much? What happened?_

_“He was right, I will allow him that much.”_

_Morpheus sits down next to Stiles._

_“Who was right?”_

_“My brother. You are very brave.”_

_“Am I dead?”_

_“Simply dreaming.”_

_“What happened?”_

_“You zapped Phobetor.”_

_“Is **he** dead?” _

_“You may be powerful, Oracle, but you cannot kill a God.”_

_Stiles nods. His right hand tingles, he looks down at it. The cut where he slashed his hand for the ritual is barely more than a silvery scar. Another to add to his collection._

_“How long have I been out this time?”_

_“No more than a sun cycle. But it isn’t I or my brother that holds you under. When you zapped Phobetor, you all but emptied your magical reserves. I believe you also obtained a concussion when the surge threw you. Your mortals have dosed you so that you can heal.”_

_“Hospital, then,” he bites at a cuticle absentmindedly._

_“Healers, yes. I broke your wards and alerted your Banshee that you were in need of healing.”_

_“You called Lydia?!”_

_“Do not fear I did no harm. And I must compliment you on your Alpha. He is as fierce as Ares. Your souls are aligned.”_

_“I thought that wasn’t your department?” Stiles cocks an eyebrow and glances at the god’s profile._

_“I asked around.”_

_“Well, isn’t that just awesome.”_

_“Your fate will not be the same as before. He has already defeated Deucalion with the help of your brother. You both have overcome tremendous grief. It is not in his heart to defy you. Your fates are entwined so tightly that nothing shall ever manage to untangle them. As the roots of that tree inked into your skin, yours are also grounded and **growing**.” _

_Stiles stares into the sun for a moment, his heart thundering in his chest. Of course he already knew all of this, but hearing it from someone else, someone that has inside knowledge… He’s overwhelmed to say the least._

_“Do not lust after the sun, Oracle, Icarus did and drowned. My brother will bother you and yours no more. You have my oath.” Morpheus stands, a warm hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “Should you have need of me again, you need only sleep.”_

_The hand on his shoulder squeezes and disappears. Stiles blinks and looks around, lights dancing in his eyes from the sun. The lacrosse field fades from view and suddenly his limbs are heavy again. He blinks and forgets how to open his eyes._

*

 

“Ow…”

“Stiles!”

He pries his lashes open and blinks up at the harsh light. He really hates waking up in hospitals. Squeezing his eyes shut, he lets his head roll to the right before opening them again. Scott’s beaming face swims into focus.

“Hey, buddy! You feeling okay?”

“I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus. A bus driven by an angry Coach Finstock.”

Scott makes a face in commiseration and pats his shoulder.

“Yeah, that’s to be expected. You hit your head pretty hard.”

“How long was I out this time?”

“‘Bout a day and a half. Lydia and Peter brought you in.”

“Peter?”

“Yeah, Lydia was at his place when she said she got a really weird vibe. She tried to call you and when you didn’t answer, she called Derek. When he couldn’t get you to pick up, we went into panic mode. Lydia and Peter got there first, said you were sprawled out next to your desk, out cold. Your hand was bleeding really badly and Peter said the room reeked like—”

“Poppies.”

Scott cants his head to the left like a puppy. “Yeah… flowers. Lydia, ah… well she confiscated that big book that matched whatever symbols you’d drawn on the floor. She wasn’t happy.”

Stiles mutters a _‘fuck’_ and ignores whatever else his brother has to say. Lydia will skin him alive when she finds out that he used a summoning spell. There was a reason that book was in a magic-lock box under his bed, after all.

He must doze off for a few minutes because the next thing he knows, he startles awake.

Stormy grey eyes roam his face. Stiles reaches out and a warm hand curls around his. Derek scoots to the edge of the chair pulled up to the bedside and leans in. The werewolf rubs his stubbled jaw along Stiles’ own, and inhales deeply at the tender spot behind his ear. Stiles exhales a shaky breath. Derek pulls back enough to meet his gaze. He doesn’t say anything, so neither does Stiles. He’s afraid he’ll break whatever spell has ensnared them. Derek’s other hand raises to gently cradle Stiles’ face and without hesitation he presses his lips to Stiles’. Inhaling deeply, it’s like coming home. Warm brushes of lips that aren’t hurried or scared anymore, it’s perfect. This feeling, the one in the pit of his stomach that is warmth, and contentment, and _joy_ , it’s why he’d go to Hell and back. This feeling is what he gets up every morning for.

“You’re okay?” Derek whispers against his mouth. Stiles nods and kisses him again. “You’ve got a— _kiss_ —lot of— _kiss_ —explaining— _kiss_ —to do.”

Stiles’ reply is interrupted by a throat being cleared. A faint rosy color tinges Derek’s cheeks making Stiles grin. He isn’t embarrassed, not any more. He lets the Alpha sit back but keeps the hand that’s still clutching his firmly grasped. Standing behind Derek, crowded by the door is the Sheriff, Melissa, Scott, and Allison. All but his dad are grinning like fools, but even John’s lips are quirked, his eyes glittering.

“Deputy… Stiles.”

“Dad…” Stiles tries to sit up and Derek lets go of him when Melissa moves to help him.

“Do you know how much trouble you’re in?”

“I fixed it!”

“You’re in the hospital!”

“A minor injury!”

The Sheriff sighs loudly and follows the others into the room. He hugs Stiles tightly making him wince. Things settle after that as he lets them all fuss over him, Derek a strong presence by his side. A short time later, they begin to leave. Melissa tells him that she’s sending him home the next morning and his dad promises to drive him. Allison kisses the corner of him mouth and promises to fix him breakfast. Scott leaves with a promise to be back with a snack on his break. Derek eases onto the bed with him, propping Stiles up between his thighs. Stiles slouches back onto his Alpha’s torso with a deep sigh.

“You fixed it?” Derek questions apprehensively.

Stiles tells him everything. He tells him of his anger, his confusion. He tells him about the gods, the souls, the nightmares that were really past. Derek takes it all in, his support silent in the form of the arms banded around Stiles. He talks about how they are meant to be using words like _destined_ and _entwined_. His voice croaks when he’s spoken till he can’t any more. Derek gives him a drink of water then encourages Stiles to rest. He’ll be there when he wakes up, he promises. So Stiles sleeps.

Derek presses a kiss to the man’s temple, and whispers a single word. It’s one word that he has never dared to breathe aloud. ‘ _Mate_.’ It causes his eyes to blaze crimson as something inside of him, inside of his very soul _clicks_ into place. Stiles, oblivious, nuzzles his cheek over Derek’s tripping heart.

Outside, stood on the sidewalk, a dark haired man in a navy trench coat smiles, turns and disappears into thin air. 

 

 


	8. My Heart.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An ending is had.

 

 

_Three weeks later…_

“No, no, you cheated!”

“How is Googling an answer cheating?”

“Children.”

Derek rolls his eyes and sips his coffee. Stiles huffs and leans against his side. He ignores the grins from the girls as he pulls his mate closer. At least they were all alright. He would take them arguing over a crossword puzzle than any other drama any day. He meets his uncle’s eyes across the table. Peter smiles at him then hides it behind his own coffee mug. Derek is completely thrown for a moment at how—how _genuine_ that smile is. The last time he vaguely remembers seeing it was in the same house, at a similar table. His heart thumps hard in his chest. The betas, minus Peter, all glance at him curiously. 

“Scott’s home,” he supplies uselessly.

Allison springs from the table and both he and Stiles watch her. Derek wonders why Stiles does. After he’d ‘fixed’ their nightmare problem they’d had a long discussion. Stiles’ guilt was huge and Derek had to ‘fix’ that. One mini-staycation at the loft later and they’d both learned a lot of new things. Derek had no idea that Stiles had liked him far longer than he’d assumed. Stiles didn’t understand, though he does now, just what Derek wants of him. Needless to say, they are both perfectly happy with their feelings now.

Glancing over, he watches Stiles pop a piece of bacon into his mouth. He watches the bright red ink stretch and flex along his inner forearm. The poppy is a reminder, the stem covering the sliver of a scar that remained on his mate’s palm. Stiles tells him that it keeps him grounded. Derek understands. The runes newly inked across his ribcage are a testament to that.

Allison and his tired Second come into the kitchen to take their places. Stiles leans away from him and places a comical kiss to Scott’s cheek and ruffles his hair. Scott smiles. Derek shakes his head at the pair of them. Erica catches his eye and he arches a brow at her.

“It’s my birthday next week,” she announces to the table.

“We know.”

She elbows Isaac and Derek scents her nervousness.

“As I was saying! My birthday is next week and I’d like to make a request.”

Derek motions her on when she stares at him.

“If you are going to buy me a gift, please do not buy alcohol…”

Lydia leans around Peter to see around him and Boyd.

“But I promised you a bottle of the red wine we had last month!”

“I can’t drink it,” Erica says quietly. Boyd grins. Isaac and Scott gapes.

“I’m pregnant,” Allison and Erica exclaim in stereo.

The room is deathly silent for six seconds before it erupts in chaos. Allison and Erica are crying, Boyd and Scott are teary-eyed and high-fiving. Isaac is trying to pet the expecting mothers’ stomachs. Lydia seems to be in shock and Peter has a gleam in his eye that Derek suspects spells trouble. Stiles, surprisingly, is uncharacteristically reserved, nothing more than a proud smile on his face. Derek tightens his arm around his Emissary and meets his shining eyes.

“You okay?”

Stiles nods enthusiastically and looks back to their pack. “‘ _As the roots of that tree inked into your skin, yours are also grounded and **growing**_.’” he whispers, but Derek hears him loud and clear. Stiles had told him of that final dream. Derek feels a burst of _hope_ bloom in his chest. As they leave their seats to congratulate the couples, it takes root, digging into the meat of his heart. His pack, his _family_ , their happy faces and lungs filled with breath… This moment, this feeling, it’s what drives him. It is what he gets out of bed for every morning. He thinks that just _maybe_ he’s finally sure, sure that this is what it feels like to be happy. To be complete.

Thirty minutes later, some get up to leave for work and others move to clear the table. Lydia stands and primly brushes the wrinkles from her skirt. Everything is normal as Peter stands, a hand on the small of her back to move by her. Lydia asks to take the Camaro and as Derek opens his mouth to agree, something strange happens. Peter spins her around instead of sliding around behind her. His hands capture her wide-eyed face and he proceeds to kiss her within an inch of her life. Time seems to stand still, everyone freezing mid-step, mid-action, mouths gaping. With a loud _smack_ of parting lips, Peter steps away from the frozen redhead. He swipes a thumb over his lips to remove a trace of red lipstick and _grins_.

“Have a good day at work, dear.”

Lydia gasps like a diver breaking the surface. Peter spares his Alpha a brilliant, electric-blue wink and exits stage left. Someone presses ‘ _play_ ’ and chaos once again descends upon Hale House. Stiles claps, Allison grins knowingly, and Derek, well, Derek _laughs_.

 

_FIN._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry that it has taken me so long to update/end this. Life happens at the worst of times. But, I did it! 'It's so short!' I hear you yell in outrage. 'It's better than abandoned!' I scream to the sky.   
> My heartfelt thanks to every one of you that has given it a go even when it wasn't finished. Thank you. I hope you enjoyed the ending!


End file.
